Kid Whisperer
by Cu Chulainn 1945
Summary: "I think those men who died were cowards, because they'd rather die and leave their kids alone than face the bullying and be a parent, Mr. Gold." Oneshots dedicated to Mr. Gold, Storybrooke's secret babysitter.
1. Unckie Gold: I Hafta Pee

**A/N: These are all fills from the kinkmeme, one of the few non-explicit prompts I could find. I'm in love with it.**

* * *

It was ten at night on a Saturday, and Emma was enjoying her time at home, waiting out the storm. Mary Margaret – who epitomized most of Ben Franklin's proverbs, especially "early to bed, early to rise" – was already asleep. It was just Emma, relaxing on the couch in her pajamas and watching Cake Boss.

The perfect, calmest way to end a day.

So of course, something was up.

The knock came during the end credits, not interrupting the show at all, but that didn't mean Emma was pleased about it. She all but stomped to the door – if it was anyone but Henry, she'd bite their head off. No one disturbed her peace, not during Cake Boss.

She opened the door.

Outside in the hallway was a soaking-wet Mr. Gold, with a little girl of around four clutching his left hand and another little girl of around two hanging from his neck, supported by his right arm. He was shivering violently and looked exasperated – the four-year-old possessed his cashmere coat, and the two-year-old was wrapped up in his jacket.

It was December and storming out, and Mr. Gold was apparently babysitting in nothing but a thin silk shirt and his trousers.

"Ah, Sheriff," said Gold tersely, ignoring Emma's gaping mouth. "May I come in?"

His voice held a note of controlled anger that suggested he might force entry. Emma opened the door a little wider.

"Sure," she said, staring at the little girls. "Come right in."

Limping heavily (the four-year-old held his cane), he entered and collapsed into a wooden chair by the kitchen table, carefully arranging his arms so as not to bump the two-year-old around.

"Sarah," he said wearily to the older of the girls, "let go of my hand for a moment, yeah?"

She hesitated, but eventually let go.

"Soooo," said Emma as Mr. Gold pried the two-year-old (Kylie) from his neck and shifted her into his lap instead. "You have kids now, I see."

"They're not mine."

Emma didn't know the ways of Storybrooke very well, but she was fairly certain kidnappers didn't usually go to police with the kidnapped children. She motioned for Gold to go on.

"I found them on Toll Bridge," he explained, wincing when Sarah climbed into his lap and put her weight on his bad leg. "_Playing_, of all things. The bridge gave out and –"

He gestured to the puddle forming around his feet. Emma raised an eyebrow.

"You jumped in after them?"

He gave her an annoyed look she couldn't quite interpret.

"Mr. Gold," said Sarah, edging her little sister out of the way and clutching at his tie, "I hafta pee."

"_Again_?" Mr. Gold asked. She nodded. With a long-suffering sigh, Gold turned to Emma, who just smirked.

"Where's your bathroom?" Gold inquired, still looking faintly annoyed.

"Through the hall," said Emma. She watched as Mr. Gold tried and failed to stand, huffed in irritation, and lifted Sarah off his lap.

"Sheriff Swan will show you," he told her, massaging his leg. Instantly, she latched onto his hand and refused to let go.

"I want _you_!" she wailed – from Mary Margaret's room, a thump and a moan could be heard as the schoolteacher fell out of bed. "I want Unckie!"

A light shade of pink dusted over Mr. Gold's cheeks. "I'm not your uncle," he protested softly, refusing to meet Emma's amused gaze. "And it's just for a moment."

"I want Uuuunckiiiieee!"

"You can't _have_ me!" Mr. Gold cried helplessly. "I'm a boy! Just –"

He broke off, eyes wide. Then he turned to Kylie with a look of utter horror and vaulted her off his lap, holding her an arm's length away as she peed on Emma's kitchen floor.

"Oh, nice," Emma commented. Mr. Gold shot her a scathing look. The toddler was completely unrepentant.

"Unckiiieee," Sarah reminded. With a particularly nasty glare, Mr. Gold handed Emma the soiled two-year-old and snatched his cane from Sarah.

"All right," he said. "Come on."

They traipsed off down the hall, Mr. Gold limping more than usual from exertion. Emma's eyes turned toward the blank-faced Kylie.

A minute passed. She could hear muffled voices coming from the bathroom.

"I'm _not_ going to wipe for you."

"But –"

"You're four and I'm trying hard enough not to look at you while you force me to be here. You can wipe on your own."

"But, Unckie –"

"_No_."

Emma sniggered. Finally, a happy-looking Sarah and a sour Mr. Gold emerged. He collapsed once more on the kitchen chair and pulled his bad leg to his chest.

"What happened?" Emma asked. He glanced up at her, taking a moment to process her words. The irritated look on his face gradually dissipated.

"Oh," he said. His left hand swooped out in some sort of aborted gesture – Sarah took the chance to grab it, and at this point, Mr. Gold didn't even seem surprised. "They fell through on Toll Bridge. I jumped in after them. Got them out."

"Their clothes are dry, though," Emma remarked, looking Kylie up and down and centering on the wet spot on the girl's pants. "For the most part."

"Yes, well, I wasn't about to walk around town in December with two hypothermic toddlers, was I?"

Bemused, Emma shook her head, thinking that she'd have to get a shirt for Kylie to wear to bed - one from Mary Margaret's closet would do. Beside her, Gold's hands slipped beneath his trousers to massage his aching calf.

"I may have broken into a children's boutique," he admitted. "But I left them the entirety of my wallet, minus credit cards, so they should be able to replace the broken window and clothes well enough."

"You didn't buy _yourself_ dry clothes, I see."

Still shivering, Mr. Gold pointed out that there wasn't much he could do for that in a children's boutique.

"Well, here," said Emma, handing him the now-squirming Kylie. "We're about the same size, right? I'll get you some of my pajamas."

She disappeared for a moment, leaving him alone with the kids.

"Can we watch a movie?" Sarah asked. He shot her an incredulous look.

"It's almost _eleven_," he said. "As soon as we can, I'm putting you to _bed_."

"Awww!"

"Don't '_aww_' me," he retorted. "I can feel the air sucking out of the room every time you yawn."

"You should go to bed, _too_, then," Sarah told him, crawling into his lap once more. Mr. Gold's eyes softened a bit though he tried to keep the irritated expression on his face; she was looking up at him in utter concern. "You're old, and you bumped your head in the river. You'll get sick."

Gold smiled down at her – and since there was no one around to witness it or damage his reputation, he pulled the girl into a hug.

"Well, thanks for worrying," he said against her hair. "But I'll be fine."

Sarah snuggled closer, her knees stabbing against his stomach in a way he was, honestly, quite willing to tolerate. She and Kylie hid their faces against his shoulder and neck, respectively. Warmth blossomed in his chest, and a ridiculously-pleased smile spread across his face.

"Aww," said a voice from the doorway, effectively wiping the smile away. "You're cuddling."

Gold's eyes flickered to the side – he didn't move his head, for fear of disrupting the children – and he saw Emma smirking at him, pajama pants, a woolen sweater, and a shirt for Kylie folded in her hands.

"We are doing no such thing," Gold snapped, trying to edge the children away. He only succeeded in somehow pulling them closer, and really, he wasn't complaining.

Their breath had evened out – both girls were asleep.

"What happened to their parents?" Emma asked, carefully prying the girls away. She handed Gold the pajamas. Not at all an even trade – he hadn't been hugged since Baelfire left, and he already missed the warmth.

"Abandoned them," he answered, pushing off the chair. He went into the bathroom and changed awkwardly, unable to stand for most of it – hell, what all had he done today? A swim in the half-frozen river. A three-mile walk to Emma's house, going out of his way to hit the children's boutique.

His leg felt like it was on fire. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to blame the kids.

Finally, he re-emerged into the living room, dry enough now to collapse on the couch instead of the uncomfortable wooden chair. Immediately and against his will, he slumped from a sitting position to lying down, his eyes sliding closed.

"I wanna sleep with Unckie," said a sleepy voice across the room. Obliging, Emma placed both girls with him and they crawled onto his chest, nuzzling against him until they were comfortable.

"Well," said Emma, sounding amused. "I guess you don't want to stay up and watch Cake Boss with me, then."

Gold was too tired to reply. Old images flashed through his mind – the hut he used to live in and the way it swayed and creaked on stormy nights. Bae's frightened face when thunder clapped, the way the boy used to climb in bed with him when he was very young and scared.

Strangely content, Gold wrapped his arms around the toddlers and fell asleep.


	2. The Magic Touch

The diner was crowded and noisy. Ruby was behind the counter and unable to help – Granny was nowhere to be seen. All around her were burly, grumpy-looking men, none of whom seemed capable of looking after kids. She needed to get Alexandra's bottle out, and in order to do that, she needed to put Alex down.

And Alex, bless her soul, was trying to out-shout whoever's car alarm was blaring outside.

"Shh, baby," said Ashley frantically, trying to be soothing as she scrabbled to get the diaper bag open. Alex wailed, only growing louder; the strap of the oversized bag started to fall off Ashley's shoulder. "Shush, baby!" she said again, a little more hysterically. "Be good -"

"I'll take her," said a soft voice to her right as Ashley fumbled with her baby bag. She jumped and felt someone lifting the baby out of her arms. She was too embarrassed, too on-edge from so many sleepless nights to feel anything other than relief.

With two hands free, she turned back to the bag and successfully worked the zipper, searching for a bottle inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the blur of black that was holding her child – Alex had stopped crying completely now and the man was murmuring to her, so all seemed well.

Ashley's hands closed around the bottle and, with a triumphant little grin, she turned back to the unknown helper.

She froze.

Just two feet from her, Mr. Gold – the man who'd terrorized her, who'd tried to steal her baby, the man she'd knocked out so she could change her life – rocked Alex in his arms and cooed at her, voice low and sweet and almost singing. His eyes were soft and in the light, seemed bright and wet; a slight but ultimately genuine smile curved around his lips.

Ashley's mouth fell open in horror.

"Thank you!" she said shrilly and not very kindly, yanking Alex away. Mr. Gold had the gall to look surprised, like he'd forgotten she was there, and Alex had the gall to start screaming once again – in the arms of her rightful mother, no less!

For a moment, Mr. Gold seemed a little awkward, almost disappointed, like he didn't know what to do with his hands now and mostly wanted to take the baby back. Ashley turned away from him, bouncing Alex fruitlessly in her arms and trying not to let him ruin her image of him as scary and hateful.

When she turned back, Mr. Gold had the bottle.

"Oh, this is shameful," he muttered, so quiet she thought he might be speaking to himself. "This isn't even warm."

Ashley's face fell instantly into a scowl and she tried to snatch the bottle from him, but with Alex cradled against her, all movement was a little limited. He cocked an eyebrow at her and sauntered away.

Ashley gritted her teeth.

_I'll just leave it_, she decided, trying to zip the baby bag up on-handed. _Alex can eat at home_.

Vaguely, she heard Mr. Gold demand use of Granny's stovetop.

She heard Granny ask why, and with a snort, she imagined Mr. Gold – scourge of Storybrooke – holding up the bottle as explanation.

Vaguely, she heard Granny say, "_Again_?"

And that was when Ashley gathered up her things – the open bag spilling diapers and extra clothes across the floor – and left. Because whether the man was great with kids or not, whether he had the magic makes-babies-stop-wailing touch or not, he was NOT going to make her sit and watch while he fed her kid.

Though Alex didn't seem opposed to the idea.

Little traitor.


	3. Backfired Babysitting

**A/N: Takes place before Mr. Gold gets his memories back.**

* * *

Regina's favorite thing about the curse, no doubt, was the bit to do with Rumpelstiltskin's memories. You see, in the old world, Rumpelstiltskin's life had been a mystery to everyone, including her. He was secretive and maniacal – he deflected all questions with disturbing bouts of laughter and/or all-around shirty antics.

Mr. Gold, however – threatening but memory-less Mr. Gold – believed she was his greatest friend. And Mr. Gold, like Rumpelstiltskin, was talkative enough to those he trusted. Like her. And even if it was only because of the curse, and even if it was only false memories he could share, Regina took great delight in learning them.

She knew that Mr. Gold (though he'd been born lame) had only needed a cane after being injured in the Vietnam War, where he'd fought with the Australian army. She knew that Mr. Gold had been married once, and that his wife had died, he said, after five miscarriages. The baby that killed her – a daughter – had been the only one to actually be born. She'd been a sickly thing, and died after only six months.

Bailey was her name – Bae for short.

It gave Regina particular pleasure to make him talk of her. She loved to bring it up, just to needle him, to see the calm and composed man's mouth twist with displeasure. She'd say things like:

"Oh, Mr. Gold, I was visiting that carpenter Marco today and guess what I saw? These little coffins that they make for children. You should see them, they're just – oh. But of course, you _have_ seen them. My apologies."

When she'd said that, his expression had become stuck in outright murderous, and he'd only snapped at her for a week, refusing polite conversation. The next time was even more fun.

"Mr. Gold, I heard the hospital released old Ms. Cobb, the woman with all those children. Her last one died, recall – you think we should pay her a visit? You two could really bond."

And very snidely, he'd replied that while he knew little about the grieving process, he suspected "having you around would only make it worse."

Regina loved it. She refused to stop.

"Oh, Mr. Gold," she said the next time, "I'm going out tonight and I need a babysitter for Henry. Since he's familiar with you and you know how to handle kids, I thought you could – oh." Her face fell in a mockery of sudden guilt. "I'm sorry. I forgot – you never had to deal with toddlers, did you?"

Face working to stay in a pleasant smile, Mr. Gold had said he'd be happy to babysit.

And here they were.

"Henry," said Regina firmly for the seventh time, her lip curling. "I _told_ you. Mr. Gold has to _go_."

Resolutely, the five-year-old wrapped his arms 'round Gold's middle and stayed right where he was, curled up in Rumpelstiltskin's lap.

"Oh, I can stay," said Gold lightly, patting Henry on the head. "We're having fun."

"Tell me the story again," Henry urged. Indulgently, Mr. Gold ignored Regina's glowering countenance and started his tale.

"Once there was a boy named Henry who lived with his sister, Reginger."

"_What_?" Regina snapped, staring between them. Henry and Mr. Gold glanced over at her.

"Ginger," Mr. Gold repeated. Regina's eyes narrowed, and the infuriating little man turned his attention back to her awestruck son. "Henry was a good boy who always did his chores. But Reginger was vain and spoiled, so every one of _her_ chores was delegated to brave Henry."

"Gold," Regina snapped again, "he doesn't even know what those words _mean_."

"I do, too!" Henry protested, pressing closer to Mr. Gold. With the air of a friendly uncle, the pawnbroker pulled the boy into something like a hug and gazed at Regina innocently. "Mr. Gold taught me," Henry went on. "Vain means she thinks she's pretty and she wants everyone else to think she's pretty, too. And de- dedegated means that she makes Henry do the chores."

There was a long pause.

"_Bed_, Henry," Regina ordered. "Now."

He kissed Mr. Gold on the cheek – Mr. Gold ruffled his hair, trying not to look too pleased – and the two parted with identical pouts. Regina may have imagined it, but she thought Gold's looked a little mocking.

"Can you come back tomorrow?" said Henry hopefully, turning at the door.

"NO," Regina stressed. Henry's eyes flickered over her shoulder and she whirled around to catch Mr. Gold clamping his mouth shut and blinking up at her like he'd been doing nothing.

Henry took his chance and ran.

"What were you mouthing to him?" Regina demanded. Gold looked mildly offended.

"Why, Regina," he scolded, "you of all people should know how hard it is to mouth things to_ toddlers_."

Well, he had her there. Toddlers were idiots.

"Goodnight," Mr. Gold grinned, finally standing. He crossed to the front door. "See you tomorrow."

Eyes narrowed, Regina watched him leave.


	4. Dr Gold

It was during one of their Storybrooke-famous public spats that Emma and Regina saw it happen. They were situated across the street (and a few stores down) from Mr. Gold's Pawnshop. While they argued – something about Henry, ice cream, and spoiling dinner (oh, you mean that dinner made of apple pastries?) (yes, I mean the dinner made of apple pastries) (like that's good for him) (maybe you should mind your business, Sheriff Swan!) – Emma's eyes strayed to the boys across the street.

There were three of them – two rather bigger than the third – and Emma suspected that their "playing" might qualify more as "bullying." It was distracting, and the protective mother in her almost wanted to go across the street and stop it – but not before she beat Regina, that is.

Then she heard the SMACK! Sound of flesh on pavement and a wail started up. Emma and Regina whirled around in time to see the pawnshop door fly open – and there was Mr. Gold, the picture of evil fury, standing between two terrified young boys and an even younger, crying one.

Mr. Gold's hands rested on his hips and a scowl twisted his face. Open-mouthed, Emma watched him scold the bullies, the picture of disapproval and retribution.

"Oh, hell," said Regina in exasperation. "Not again."

They made their way across the street.

"Do you know what kind of people push others to the ground?" Mr. Gold was saying – already, the boys were in tears. "Little punks who grow up into bad guys. You push people to the ground and no one likes you. _I_ certainly don't like you. I think you're mean, spiteful little blaggards who will end up with no friends, crying into your pillows at the age of forty-six."

One of the boys started to bawl. The other one stared at his shoes, apparently upset that Mr. Gold didn't like him.

"What are your parents' names?" Mr. Gold demanded, his expression assembling into something more closed-off and less furious. Trembling, the boys recited the names. "I'll be talking to them. And if _they_ don't punish _you_, I'll have to punish_ them_. Remember that."

Miserably, the boys set off for home. Before Regina could say anything and before Emma could step in, Mr. Gold's face softened and he turned to the boy on the ground, who was cradling a scraped elbow.

"Oh, dear," Mr. Gold tutted, kneeling haltingly on the pavement and examining the scrape. "Oh, this is bad."

The boy looked up at him fearfully.

"Yes," said Mr. Gold dryly with a sad shake of his head. "This is going to require surgery."

Suddenly, before anyone could process his baffling words, he stuck his hand out in Emma's direction, looking business-like and intent.

"Anesthetic," he demanded. The boy's eyes were wide as saucers, and Emma was fairly sure she looked the same.

With the air of someone who'd seen it all and didn't like it, Regina pretended to pass something invisible to Mr. Gold. Mr. Gold pretended to apply it to the boy's elbow.

"Scalpel," he said, sticking out his hand again. The boy giggled, and Mr. Gold turned back to him in mock surprise.

"Oh, no," he whispered, stll looking deadly serious. "The anesthetic isn't working. He's _laughing_. Doctor, he'll feel everything!"

The kid snickered and burst into laughter. While he was distracted, Mr. Gold reached into his jacket, pulled out a band-aid, and slapped it on the wound.

"There you are," he said, helping the boy to his feet. "The operation was successful, sir. You'll be able to walk again in less than a week."

Still gaping, Emma looked over at Regina. The other woman only shook her head in disgust.

"You're pathetic," she told Mr. Gold as the child bounded away, waving and shouting his thanks. "What were you planning on next, giving the child candy?"

"Candy dish is in the shop," Mr. Gold replied, face blank. "Hello, Sheriff."

"Hi," said Emma.

Dusting off his trousers, Mr. Gold stood and left them on the street.

"Moron," said Regina scornfully.

Emma disagreed.


	5. Mr Fix It

"Come on, Gold - just two more days. Can't you spare just two more days?"

"Terms of the loan were specific, Mr. French. I'm afraid I can't -"

"_PLEASE_, Gold! Just two more days!"

"Mr. French -"

SLAM.

"MR. GOOOOLD!"

"What the -"

"Adam? Whatever's wrong?"

"My dwagon bwoke! The one you made fow me!"

"Not Harold!"

"What the _HELL_?"

"Yeah! Hawold!"

"Here. Let me see it, kiddo."

…

"Hmm. This IS pretty bad."

"Can you fix it?"

"Who the hell IS this kid?"

"Yes, I can fix it. Come along, Adam -excuse me for a moment, Mr. French."

"Gold! What the hell is going on? Who is this kid?"

"Please don't swear in front of the children, Mr. French. It only makes you look more crass."

"GOLD!"

…

…

…

…

"There you go. All better."

"You fixed Hawold!"

"Well, of course I did. I made him, didn't I?"

"_Thank _you, Mr. Gold!"

"_Umph_!"

…

"Gold."

"Mr. French?"

"Did a little boy just come in here, make you fix his toy dragon, and give you a hug?"

…

…

"It's just - it wasn't a very threatening thing to see. That's all."

…

"Here's your money, Mr. Gold. Sorry to be a bother."

"My pleasure, Mr. French."


	6. Unckie Gold: Finding Nemo

Mr. Gold woke up on Sunday at around noon, the sun outside turning the air yellow and generally making sleep impossible. For a moment, he wondered where he was - why he was so comfortable, so warm, why he wasn't facing the right way to be sleeping in his bed.

Then -

"Well, good morning, sleepy," said the amused and familiar voice of Miss Blanchard. Mr. Gold opened his eyes and tried to sit up, then realized there were toddlers sitting on him and focused more on making sure they didn't fall off. They didn't seem to notice; their eyes were fixed on Spongebob.

"Miss Blanchard?" Gold said weakly.

"Don't worry," Mary Margaret smiled. "Emma filled me in. Though I must admit - waking up before her, I was a little freaked out to find you and two toddlers sleeping on my couch. Obviously, they woke up before you did."

"Hi, Unckie," said Sarah absently, staring at the TV.

"Hey," said Gold. He settled back and closed his eyes again - the events of the night before had left him uncharacteristically tired and lazy, and all he wanted to do was go back to sleep. After a few minutes, he'd relaxed enough to drift off. Then there was a thunk near his head as a tray was set down - Mary Margaret was trying to give him breakfast in bed.

At noon.

"Is the sheriff gone?" asked Gold, trying to slowly displace Kylie from her spot on his bad leg. He'd given up on sleep.

"She's at work," Mary Margaret said. "But she comes back for lunch - she should be here soon."

He ended up with five minutes for stretching and rubbing his eyes before he couldn't stand it anymore.

"OK," he said, fruitlessly nudging at the toddlers. "Miss Blanchard. I'm fifty years old and I haven't peed since yesterday."

She stared at him blankly for a moment. He tilted his head toward the kids.

"Oh!" she cried, scooping Kylie up and motioning for Sarah to follow. "Girls, let Mr. Gold use the potty."

Mr. Gold stifled a groan at the indignity of that statement and swung his legs off the bed. He was already standing before he realized that standing wasn't a good idea.

He couldn't feel his bad leg.

"OK," he said again, taking a deep, calming breath. "Miss Blanchard. Could you, ah - turn around?"

Blinking confusedly, she obliged. All she heard as he left was a repetitious thudding noise that suggested he was hopping so as not to put weight on his leg.

But … but she was probably wrong.

Emma entered the apartment while he was gone, her eyes instantly going to the now-empty couch.

"Gold's up, then?" she checked. Mary Margaret let the kids sit back down.

"Yep."

"Cool. Maybe now those damn kids'll calm down. How the hell did he sleep over all that noise?"

"They wouldn't have screamed if you hadn't teased them about not getting any food," Mary Margaret pointed out.

"Shut up."

Mr. Gold wandered back into the living room, limping heavily (though no longer needing to hop), and slumped back on the couch. Instantly, Sarah and Kylie swarmed him, trying simultaneously to sit in his lap and ease the pain from his bad knee.

He pretended to be grumpy about it, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Mary Margaret and Emma turned away from the sight with barely-restrained grins.

"Oh, I picked up a movie from Clark's," Emma announced as she rooted through the fridge. "_Finding Nemo_."

"_FINDING NEMO_!" Sarah and Kylie chorused. Gold winced.

"What's _Finding Nemo_?" he asked. Emma looked at him in surprise.

"You've never heard of it?" she said. "It's a really famous cartoon movie about fish."

There was a long, silent pause that Emma took to mean Gold didn't want to respond.

"I'll put it in," said Mary Margaret cheerily. She pulled the DVD from Emma's stack of paperwork and slid it in, turning the TV to the correct channel. Hushing each other, the girls gathered on Mr. Gold's lap and watched the opening. With a sandwich in hand, Emma plopped down next to Gold - Mary Margaret took the other side.

_Their parents_? Gold mouthed at her, pointing an unseen finger at Sarah and Kylie. Emma shook her head.

He didn't look ecstatic, but his face didn't exactly fall. Emma made a mental note that hiring Gold as Henry's babysitter in the future might not be too bad of an idea.

The movie went on with the children enraptured and all of the adults at least mildly interested. Emma had seen it before and was doing paperwork more often than watching it. Mary Margaret was mostly paying attention, but she was also texting David.

Mr. Gold was hypnotized.

Chuckling a little, Emma watched as Nemo swam out to the boat against his father's wishes. She looked back at her paperwork for a moment, then -

"Who plays Nemo?" Mr. Gold asked lightly, his voice a little hoarse-sounding. Startled, Emma picked up the DVD case and turned it over.

"Alexander Gould," she read with a grin. By now, everyone was distracted from the movie, their thoughts elsewhere. "Aw, Mr. Gold. You didn't tell me your kid was an actor."

He didn't respond. Emma stared at him, getting the distinct feeling that he'd been trying to distract one or both of them from something. The fact that she couldn't figure out what he was distracting her from made her frown.

"Well, I've got to get back to work," she announced just as Marlin was panicking onscreen, trying and failing to get to his son. "I'll be back later, OK?"

"Kay," said Mary Margaret absently, staring at her phone. Sarah, Kylie, and Mr. Gold were absolutely silent, entangled in each other. Mr. Gold's eyes were suspiciously bright.

"Bye," said Emma. She shut the door behind her.

* * *

Mary Margaret stopped texting David around halfway through the movie, much to her relief. Talking to that man was like talking to an awkward high school boy who kept forgetting which number was his girlfriend's and which one belonged to the hot brunette he was seeing on the side.

Not that Mary Margaret saw herself as hot.

Engrossed in the movie, it wasn't until a little over halfway through that she fully realized the ridiculousness of her situation. Her feet were propped up on the arm of the couch and her head was resting against Mr. Gold's shoulder. His bad leg had been curled up to his chest, but now it was resting loosely over her thigh. Sitting on his lap was Kylie - nestled against his side, pressed close, was Sarah.

Mary Margaret snorted and failed to disturb any of the three, which was no big surprise. Kylie and Sarah had dropped off half an hour ago, and Mr. Gold was still intent on the movie.

They watched, snugged comfortably together, as the scarred fish - Glen, or Gill, or something - talked to Nemo in the fishtank.

"You miss your dad, don't you, Sharkbait?" Gill said. Nemo sighed.

"Yeah."

"Well, you're lucky to have someone out there who's lookin' for you," Gill said wisely.

"He's not looking for me," Nemo said. "He's scared of the ocean."

There was a brief pause in the movie - then, abruptly, Mr. Gold jerked away. Mary Margaret's attention was snapped away from the film and she looked at him instead, but Gold was facing the other way. His hair hung in front of his eyes, and all she could see was the outline of his clenched jaw and the corner of his mouth, lips pulled back in what might have been a snarl.

He made a broken sort of sound that was probably meant as an apology but didn't come out as word at all. Startled, Mary Margaret twisted her head around to look at him. He was swiftly and shakily moving the kids off his lap so he could stand, one hand covering his mouth.

His eyes were wet and rimmed with red. His lips were trembling.

"Sorry," he breathed, flinching a little at her dumbfounded gaze and managing to wake Sarah.

"You're _crying_," Mary Margaret gaped. He swiped at his eyes and hunched in on himself, trying to stop himself from shaking - Mary Margaret was about to go full-on schoolteacher mode and ask him what was wrong when a blur of pastel colors and rage landed on her face.

"You hurt my Unckie!" Sarah yelled, landing not-so-gentle blows on Mary Margaret. "I'll kill you!"

"HELP!" Mary Margaret shouted. In an instant, Sarah was yanked away and a still-teary Mr. Gold was scolding her while balancing her on his good knee, his voice thick and brittle.

"Sarah, we don't hit," he told her, wagging a finger. Sarah, faced with the full disapproval of Storybrooke's scariest man, only pouted.

"But you're crying," she protested, managing to glare with sympathy. "Why are you crying?"

Mr. Gold's dignity prevented him from answering. "Apologize to Miss Blanchard," he commanded, setting his mouth in a tight line. Near tears herself, Sarah turned to Mary Margaret and mumbled 'sorry.'

"That's okay," said Mary Margaret, rubbing at a red mark on her cheek. "I forgive you."

There was a moment of satisfied silence. Mr. Gold let out a silent sigh, wiping his eyes surreptitiously and sniffing.

"But seriously," said the teacher. "Why are you crying?"

And there was no doubt about it - the scourge of Storybrooke was blushing now as well. Sarah hoisted herself up so she was holding onto the neck of his sweater, her little nose poked right into his face. Gold turned his gaze away from Mary Margaret, staring expectantly at the little girl.

"Please don't hurt no more," she begged. Mr. Gold let out a breathy sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.

"I won't," he promised. The girl wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Gold hugged her tightly, his mouth twisting once more – just a little – before he took a deep breath and got himself under control.

Mary Margaret decided not to ask again.


	7. Butterfly Clips

Henry was ten years old and due to those LIES ABSOLUTE LIES Emma Swan was spreading about Regina, it was getting increasingly hard to find a babysitter. She called all the local teenagers, but half of them always refused on principle and the other half muttered something about being "paid off."

She called the elementary teachers, who disavowed any knowledge of children as well as any desire to be around children when not strictly necessary.

Finally, gritting her teeth at the idea, she called Mr. Gold.

"Tonight?" he said. "I suppose I can make it. Is it just Henry, or will I be looking after Miss Swan as well?"

Regina bit back a surge of bitterness. "No," she spat. "Just Henry."

"Well, so far as _you_ know."

Regina slammed the phone back onto the receiver and took a moment to seethe. Then she turned to Henry, who was recording her every movement in a notebook labeled "Operation Llama", which she'd come to learn was code for "stuff to tell the folks at CPS."

Regina snatched the notebook away.

"Henry," she said through gritted teeth, "Mr. Gold is babysitting you tonight. Would you like to invite over some friends?"

Henry shrugged.

"What about that rather plain girl you like?" Regina asked. "Paige?"

Henry shrugged. Regina thought back on what she knew of Paige – body of a ten-year-old, mind of a toddler. She'd be perfect.

"I'll invite Paige," she said.

* * *

Mr. Gold arrived at five and was startled by a powerful tackling-hug that nearly knocked him off his feet.

"Hello, er –" He craned his neck to see who was hugging him. "Paige. Haven't seen _you_ in a while."

She clambered off of him and scampered back to Henry. Regina was watching the scene with a malicious glint in her eyes that suggested she somehow thought Mr. Gold disliked hugs. He raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the door.

"Don't you have somewhere to be, dear?"

With a scowl, she grabbed her purse and brushed past him, slamming the door behind her. Gold turned back to the kids.

"I'm _bored_," Paige whined. Mr. Gold looked around the sparse mansion for something mildly entertaining to the ten-year-old brain. He contemplated the wisdom of sending the boy and girl to Henry's room alone. Had_ he_ been interested in girls when he was ten?

Hm.

He noticed they were staring at him.

"Once upon a time," he started. Gasping, the kids jumped to their feet and ran over to the couch, where he eventually joined them. Henry took his cane and put it aside; Paige started massaging his bad leg.

Kids. He loved them.

"Once upon a time," he said again, "there was a miller's daughter …"

* * *

Regina returned home at ten to an unusual sight. The three of them were on the couch – Henry was sprawled out with his feet in Mr. Gold's lap, and Paige was kneeling at the pawnbroker's side, her hands working at his hair.

"Just let me put this clip in," she said. "And then we'll be done."

Slowly, Regina made her way around the room to get a better look. The little girl had done Gold's hair up in short, messy braids, and whatever hair she couldn't fit into the braids was held back with glittery plastic clips in the shape of butterflies and flowers.

"You look so _pretty_!" she cooed.

"Do I really?"

"Yes!"

Regina cleared her throat. Their heads swiveled around her way.

"Paige, dear," said Mr. Gold, "perhaps we should take these braids out before I go home."

She stopped gaping at Regina to turn around and look at him in horror.

"You don't like them?" she cried. Mr. Gold was quick to placate her.

"I love them," he responded. "They're … beautiful."

Paige squealed. "So you won't take them out?"

Regina smirked. With a smile frozen in place, Gold tapped Paige on the nose and stood.

"Next time, we braid Henry's hair," he promised.

Regina's smirk slid away.


	8. The Cookie Caper

It started only three weeks after Emma became sheriff - the usual kids were out in the street playing soccer, despite the cold weather … and then, suddenly, the kids weren't there.

It was like a modern case of the Pied Piper - every weekend, those children would disappear for half an hour, only to return and keep playing. Their parents didn't know where they went, and the children denied having left.

Strange.

Finally, with no other options left, Emma parked her car near where the children played soccer and staked it out. At eleven-thirty, one of the older boys - a nine-year-old named John who led the other kids into the snow each Saturday - looked at his watch and announced it was time to go.

They gathered up the ball and "goal posts" and traipsed away.

Emma followed.

She traced them all the way to Mr. Gold's house, where the children looked around and snuck inside. Emma gave them a moment to get into incriminating positions - then she approached the front door and kicked it open.

There was absolutely no reaction to her dramatic entrance. Frowning, Emma kept her gun poised in front of her and crept through the halls. There was a distinct smell of something - something spicy, something familiar - coming from the kitchen.

When she entered the kitchen and found all the children seated at a table while an apron-clad Mr. Gold served them lunch, she realized it was spaghetti.

"Sheriff Swan," Gold greeted, sounding surprised but not quite as panicked as a pedophile should. "Would you like a juice box?"

Emma put her gun down. "No." She looked around at the kids, most of whom were digging into the noodles with gusto, as well as eyeing the plate of fresh-baked cookies on the counter.

"So," she said. "This is where the soccer team goes every Saturday?"

"Well, they have to eat somewhere," Gold responded. He set a tray of juice-filled glasses on the table and each was instantly snatched up by grubby little hands. "And I know for a fact that Kenny's parents consider two slices of cheese to be an adequate meal for a growing boy."

One of the kids, a particularly small and greasy-looking boy, looked up and grinned. Emma saw Mr. Gold smile back and assumed this must be Kenny.

"Why the secrecy?" asked Emma, turning back to the pawnbroker. "None of the kids would tell anyone where they were going."

"I do have a reputation to upkeep, Sheriff," Gold said, pulling another sheet of cookies from the oven. "It's not exactly intimidating to give a group of children free meals."

He paused before putting the cookies down and spared a thoughtful glance for his flower-printed apron.

"Um," he said.

"Yeah," said Emma. Mr. Gold bit his lip and looked up at her.

"I wouldn't be adverse to your discretion on this matter, Sheriff."

Emma suspected that was as close as Gold got to a desperate "Please don't tell." She looked around the room at the happily-munching kids and found there wasn't much she could complain about. The food was healthy, and the kids were getting out of the cold.

"I'll find something to say," she decided. Smiling widely, Mr. Gold handed her a homemade chocolate chip cookie.

And if this made her a corrupt officer, she foresaw a lot of broken laws in her future.

Those cookies were delicious.


	9. Child Protective Services

It happened so fast.

The first thing Emma saw was the new sports car – property of one of Storybrooke's big spenders, a woman named Tanya Hertz who reportedly had run for mayor at every opportunity and never won. Her car was famous around Storybrooke because it was always above the speed limit. Today was no exception. It was speeding down Main Street like a drag racer.

The next thing Emma saw was Henry, in the middle of the street.

She was fifty feet away but by the time the car hit and a body was flying through the air, she was close enough to be the first responder. She couldn't feel anything except her heart thudding in her chest; her vision was going blurry. She couldn't hear anything except her own screams and someone on the street calling an ambulance. Then, with shaking hands, she reached out and touched the person's face, and she realized it wasn't Henry.

Henry had been pushed to the ground, out of the car's path, and was standing now, wandering toward them with scraped knees and dirty clothes.

On the ground was Mr. Gold.

"Easy," Emma breathed. For all intents and purposes, Mr. Gold could be sleeping – his hands were clenched on his chest and his head was tilted slightly to the side; his eyes were closed and his body was limp. Gingerly, Emma brought her fingertips to his temples and skimmed them down to his neck, searching for any odd knobs that might indicate a broken spine.

His eyes slid open groggily. They were glazed, vaguely focused on the street behind her.

"Hey," said Emma softly. "Mr. Gold, can you hear me?"

His gaze moved toward her like a slug. There was a glimmer of comprehension in it – he could understand her, then.

"Where are you hurt?" Emma asked. Mr. Gold's face was pale.

"The boy …," he whispered. Emma's eyes flickered down to his right leg, where the cloth on his trousers had turned black with blood; it was twisted and ripped.

"You're bleeding," she said, reaching out to brush against his leg. "Can you feel that?"

"The boy," said Mr. Gold a little louder. His torso lifted about an inch of the ground as he tried to sit up, but Emma pushed him back down. He settled for an intimidating stare. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine."

"You sure?" Whatever authority had been his voice had drained away. He seemed oddly vulnerable – timid and worried, maybe even shy. Emma couldn't really see the self-serving and collected Mr. Gold pushing her son out of the way to take a blow for himself – but when she combined him with the injured man on the ground, this brief glimpse of what he might have been once, before all the power, it became a no-brainer.

"I'm positive," Emma assured. Relief took over Gold's features and he closed his eyes again. Carefully, Emma wormed her fingers under his head to check for any wounds. She felt the blood instantly and shifted, cradling him so he wasn't lying on the concrete. She could feel him trembling now that he was in her arms, could feel every shallow breath he took. While she sat there, just holding the man who saved her son, someone from the gathering crowd stepped forward.

It was Henry.

"Emma?" he said tremulously, wringing his hands. "Is he OK?"

Emma looked at Mr. Gold, who was blank-faced and tired, but could still meet her gaze with clear, frank eyes. Suddenly, Emma was close to tears.

"He's hurt," she choked, and saw Henry deflate.

"Remember Operation Cobra?" he said quietly, kneeling and scooting closer to take Mr. Gold's hand. Emma nodded, unsure how it related. Henry took a shaky breath. "Well," he said, face crumpling "I don't think that he's a bad guy anymore."

The ghost of a smile crossed Mr. Gold's face. His eyes, sliding closed again, fixed on Henry with warmth.

His trembling started to fade, and in Emma's arms, he was becoming unnaturally still.

"An ambulance is coming," Henry murmured.

Mr. Gold went cold.

* * *

**A/N: ... Guys ... is this sad?**

**Did I write something sad, or did it fail?**

**Either way, it failed. It wasn't meant to be sad.**

**(To the person who requested this MY STARS I'M SORRY)**

**So, this was the prompt: A kid is in danger and Gold saves the day somehow. (I don't know, just something you could expand on.)**

**But you can't blame the person who requested this, because this was just my own twisted doing XD I had an old story with characters who were thinly-disguised plagiarisms of Mr. Gold, Henry, and Emma. And their story didn't have an ending, so I typed it up, changed the names, and LOOK WHAT HAPPENED. WHY DO YOU PEOPLE LET ME WRITE?**

** Gah.**


	10. Meet the Fosters

**A/N: This one was prompted by the lovely TARRANT HiTOPP, who asked for: Emma finds out somehow that gold had held numerous foster kids in his house, over the years, and that's how he got Henry. **

**It's a direct sequel to the last chapter, where VERY BAD THINGS happened.**

* * *

Emma was sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to his hospital bed and Henry was actually holding his hand when Gold's eyelids fluttered and he finally woke up.

"Hey," said Emma with a shaky smile. Mr. Gold didn't acknowledge her yet – he was trying to keep himself from balking at the intense look in Henry's somewhat-teary eyes. "You gave us a bit of a scare there."

Slowly, Gold shifted higher up on his bed and looked around. Instantly, his face fell into a grimace.

"Don't like hospitals?" Emma asked, eyebrows raised. "I always could've left you on the pavement. Would've solved a lot of legal problems in this town."

It wasn't even Gold who shot her a chastising look for that – it was Henry.

"Mr. Gold?" he whispered, clutching the man's hand tighter. Gold's eyes flicked back toward him and caught an expression of worry and admiration.

"Yes, Henry?"

" … Thanks."

More weakly than he'd like to admit, Mr. Gold waved a hand in dismissal. "No matter."

"And I don't think you're a bad guy anymore," Henry added. " 'Cuz I remembered how you used to tell me fairy tales when I was little, and since you saved me … I want you to join Operation Cobra."

Emma slashed her hands in front of her throat in a wild, "don't do it!" gesture. Gold cocked an eyebrow.

"Operation what?" he said.

Henry didn't have time to answer.

"Oh, is he awake?" said a voice from the doorway, half-teasing and half-relieved. Emma and Henry turned to see a boy no more than nineteen standing there, his shoulders tilted and his expression sheepish.

"Joel," said Mr. Gold, sounding stunned. Emma looked around in confusion.

"Uh, sorry," she said to the boy, "but who are you?"

He graced her with a brief, acknowledging smile. "I'm Joel Riley," he introduced, shaking her hand.

"He's my foster son," said Gold lazily. Emma's mouth fell open.

"_What_?"

"Just thought I'd pop in," said Joel solemnly, nudging Henry out of the way so he could take Mr. Gold's hand instead. "I've been out of town."

"I know."

Emma's mouth worked noiselessly – and before her eyes, a parade of at least a dozen more people – some still quite young – entered the hospital room.

"Didn't I tell you?" Gold asked innocently as he was surrounded by gifts of flowers and teddy bears. "My house serves as Storybrooke's foster system. It's how Henry got here."

A girl of around seventeen brushed the hair back from his forehead and pressed a kiss to the bandage there. Gold managed to hold back his pleased grin.

"You look awful," she told them. Mr. Gold gave her a roguish grin.

"Now, lass –" he started.

"I know." As a group, the former foster children chorused, "You don't feel right without a bullet between the ribs."

Mr. Gold chuckled and gave his kids a fondly exasperated look. Emma felt like everything she knew was no longer accurate. She wondered if maybe Regina handed out free toys on weekends – with what she'd seen here, it would almost make sense.

"Story time!" Joel announced as the dozen or so people perched somewhere on Mr. Gold's hospital bed. "I'll go first."

"Miss Swan," said Mr. Gold, locking eyes with her, "get out now."

And the reminiscing began.

* * *

**A/N: Thus begins the saga of people who lived with Gold as kids. I've got some ideas, but I would not be adverse to prompts. Anything you give me, I promise to complete.**

**(See? He isn't dead. I wouldn't do that.)**

***erases chapter about Gold's funeral***


	11. Spinning Squaw Into Gold

The streets of Storybrooke were busy and the climate was, for a fall day in Maine, unusually warm. Everyone was walking; everyone was up and about, and that included Dr. Hopper.

Out of consideration for other people who might not like to share a sidewalk with a dog, Archie only walked Pongo on backstreets, when it could be managed. Unlike the other streets today, the ones Archie was on were completely empty. All he could hear was the wind blowing, his and Pongo's footsteps, and the occasional passing car several streets away.

That, and voices.

…_Voices_?

"Joel, stop doing that," said a vaguely familiar, frustrated voice. "Hold still. You're upsetting the baby."

"Why we gotta bring the baby anyway?"

Was that a kid speaking? Archie looked down at Pongo; he and the mysterious voices were getting closer to each other. He just hoped the kid wasn't allergic to dogs – he'd feel so bad about triggering an allergy attack.

"She can't just _stay home_," said the adult, patience clearly thinning. "And I'm not trusting any of the teenagers in this town to _babysit_."

"_I _could stay home and babysit her!"

"Joel. You're seven."

"So?"

"_Seven_."

"I'm big! I can handle –"

And that was when Archie rounded a corner and ran straight into a little, dark-haired boy and … Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold wearing some sort of papoose.

"Oh, hell," the other man said instantly, taking a half-step back and starting to cover his face. He brought his hand back down to his side with a quick, exasperated snap and forced a smile. "Dr. Hopper. What a pleasant surprise."

Archie looked down at the baby in the pink papoose, who gurgled in delight and grabbed some of Mr. Gold's hair. The older man winced and ducked his head; something in his eyes told Archie to pretend it didn't happen.

"Wow," Archie said dumbly. "She's got a good … uh, reach."

"_Yes_, Doctor. She's a regular _gymnast_. Do you mind letting us pass?"

Archie belatedly realized that he and Pongo were blocking the narrow street. He grabbed the dog's leash a little tighter, but couldn't resist asking one more question before he got out of their way.

"These are your kids, right?" he said, looking between Joel, who was holding Mr. Gold's left hand, and the baby girl, who was still holding his hair. "I mean –"

"Dr. Hopper," Mr. Gold cut in impatiently, "do you really think I'd have someone _else's_ baby strapped to my chest as I walk to work?"

Archie felt his cheeks heat up. "Right," he mumbled. He stepped to the side, pulling Pongo with him.

With all the dignity of a very rich, very controlled man, Mr. Gold passed by.

It would have been impressive if the baby hadn't projectile-vomited as they went.


	12. Jelly and Peanut Barter

**A/N: ... My chapter titles, guys. I'm such a dork.**

* * *

Alicia was six when she started staying with Mr. Gold. With the absence of a baby, they were able to walk up and down the main streets as they pleased, and for the most part, they were unbothered.

Oh, people still gave them funny looks. Mr. Gold was fairly certain they thought he'd stolen her and was planning to sell her on the black market. But no one was brave enough to confront him about it, so it gave him a certain amount of pleasure to be willfully ignored as he and his foster daughter walked to the shop.

He set her up in the backroom, and when he didn't have customers, he kept her company. It wasn't until eleven that he heard the bell in the main room of the shop ring and he had to leave.

"Here," he told her, giving her a little packed lunch – one PB&J, crusts cut off; one bag of baby carrots; one juice box and one cookie. "Eat this. I'll be right back."

He emerged to find Sheriff Graham examining a quiver of arrows and a wolf-skin cloak.

"How much for this?" asked Graham speculatively, studying the quiver.

"Ah," said Mr. Gold. "Well, that is a genuine buckskin quiver from the Iroquois tribe. If you bring it here, the price should be hooked on the inside –"

"Daddy?"

Mr. Gold stiffened. Graham looked around in confusion. At the same time, the men dropped their gazes to the little girl standing next to the pawnbroker.

"Daddy," she said, grabbing his hand with her own, extremely-sticky ones, "I spilled my grape juice."

For a long, terrible moment, Mr. Gold couldn't think of a response.

"Where?" he asked finally, fully aware of Graham's amused look.

"And my sandwich asploded."

"Where?" Mr. Gold repeated, not bothering to ask how a sandwich could explode – he'd fostered enough children by now to just know.

"On my hands," Alicia responded.

Mr. Gold looked down at their entwined, purple-and-brown hands.

"I see," he said.

Graham stifled a laugh.

"Alicia," Mr. Gold said with forced calm, "could you go get some baby wipes for Daddy?"

"Huh-uh."

"… Why not?"

" 'Cuz I used 'em all," Alicia replied with a gap-toothed grin.

"On _what_?"

"My dolly. She needed diapers."

"What?" Mr. Gold gaped at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. Graham was practically rocking with suppressed laughter. "Well, did she – did she use them?"

"Uh-huh."

With a noise in the back of his throat that was almost a whine, Mr. Gold started to put a hand over his eyes. He managed to stop himself just in time, staring at the sticky concoction on his fingers with disgust.

"It's okay, Mr. Gold," Graham told him, looking inside the buckskin quiver. "I can get the price for you – it's says twelve bucks."

Mr. Gold scoffed. "Unlikely."

"It says twelve bucks and a box of hand wipes from the store."

Alicia plucked the handkerchief from Gold's pocket, roughly wiped her hands with it, and skipped back to his office. Mr. Gold studied his completely-soiled pocket square in disgust; eyes narrowed, he looked over at Graham.

"Twenty-five dollars," he bartered, not liking the sheriff's mischievous grin, "and I'll settle for the crumpled napkins in your pocket."

"Twelve and a box of hand wipes."

Mr. Gold had never accepted a price so low for something – even if it wasn't really buckskin from the Iroquois, it still stung.

"Deal."


	13. Myrtle the Turtle

It was half-past twelve, and Gold was considering a little lunch break of his own when the bell over the door rang yet again.

"I'll be right back," he promised Alicia, grabbing his cane and heading out to meet the customer. Ruby stood next to an old display case, eyeing a yard of red fabric.

"You think I could make a little red dress out of this?" she asked him idly, fingers brushing against the cloth. Mr. Gold thought that if he let Ruby unknowingly destroy her own cloak, he just might find himself getting eaten at the next full moon.

"Depends on your sewing skills," he shrugged. He could see Ruby considering it, her eyes far away as she thought.

"Daddy?"

Ruby jumped and looked around, eyebrows furrowed. Mr. Gold stared straight ahead and pretended not to hear. He felt a tug on his sleeve and saw the exact moment when Ruby's eyes lighted on Alicia.

"What is it, dear?" he asked finally.

"My braid fell out. And my shoes are untied."

Mr. Gold stifled his first question, which was "How the hell did you manage to undo all that while sitting?" Instead, he shuffled down to his knees and pulled Alicia closer, first turning her around so he could pull her hair into a ponytail. His movements were economical and sure; without pausing, he turned her around again and tied her shoes.

"Thanks, Daddy!" Alicia chirped, giving him a quick hug before she bounded back to his office. For a moment, Gold stared after her, a slight smile on his lips.

Then he remembered where he was.

"The cloth is rather expensive, dear," he told Ruby, putting one hand on the counter and the other on his cane as he tried to stand. "I'm not sure you can afford it."

"Well, how much is it? And who's the girl? She's cute."

Mr. Gold managed to get into something like a squatting position before his bad leg shook and he slammed back to his knees. He pretended he was looking for something on the floor.

"Lost my cufflinks," he muttered. Ruby smirked.

"Daaaddy?"

"Not now!" Mr. Gold called shortly, trying to get his feet beneath him. Damn kids. Damn leg. Damn traction-less floor.

"Daddy?" said Alicia again, this time much closer. He looked up and saw her gazing at him curiously, head cocked.

"What?" Gold asked, abandoning his false search for cufflinks.

"Did you fall?"

"_No_."

Alicia's face split into a wide grin. "You fell and can't get back up," she stated gleefully. Ruby hid a smile.

"That's not true," said Mr. Gold patiently. He lowered his voice a little. "Although a good girl would just help her papa off the floor."

Alicia giggled and jumped back, out of his reach.

"Myrtle the Turtle!" she taunted in a sing-song voice, completely baffling him. "Myrtle the Turtle can't get up!"

Ruby let out a stream of loud, snorting chortles. Mr. Gold just stared at his foster child in confusion.

"What are you –"

"Myrtle the Turtle, Myrtle the Turtle!"

With a sigh of exasperation, Mr. Gold lunged for her and used her shoulder and his cane as support. He lurched to his feet and pretended to affix his cufflinks in their rightful place.

"Found them," he said, despite Ruby's rolling eyes. He gave Alicia a glare. "And you, young miss, are grounded. We don't call names."

When a pouting Alicia had stomped back to the office, Mr. Gold told Ruby exactly how much he would raise her rent if the words "Myrtle the Turtle" were ever uttered in his presence by any of the townfolk.

Ruby just rolled her eyes again.

* * *

**A/N: When my mom was pregnant with me, my dad used to get her on her back and taunt her because she couldn't roll over and get up on her own. He used to sing "Myrtle the Turtle" for up to ten minutes. And then he would leave her there.**

**My dad's a bit of an ass.**


	14. Shelter

It was three o'clock, and Mr. Gold was considering never fostering a girl again. They were too much work – and worse, they were _inscrutable_ work. Boys were difficult too, but at least he could _understand_ them. Alicia, on the other hand ….

"Daddy, do you ever wear that dress?"

"No, dear, it's for sale. And I don't wear merchandise … or … dresses."

"Daddy, can we play Snow White? You be Snow White."

"I know people who wouldn't like that, dear. I suggest you pick another game."

"Daddy, do you know how to fake-burp?"

"… No?"

"Here, let me show you! Do this! BWAAARP!"

" ….."

Frankly, he was getting sick and tired of it. Not that he would let Alicia know that – the girl was still absolutely precious, and he'd always had an embarrassing soft spot for kids. Maybe he could start dropping her off at Miss Blanchard's house – she knew how to deal with little girls.

He didn't get much time to contemplate it, though. What had started as a nice summer day was turning into a nasty summer storm, and since he and Alicia had walked to the pawnshop (and most certainly weren't walking home in this downpour), Mr. Gold went around securing windows and ushering Alicia to the less-cluttered living quarters upstairs.

"I'll be right back," he promised, making sure she was more comfortable in the ancient bedroom than she'd been in the dark office downstairs. A little belatedly, he wished he'd dusted. "Come down if you need me. Don't shout."

She nodded and he made it back downstairs just as the downpour started. He was halfway to the door, meaning to lock it and close up, when a torrent of people seeking shelter from the rain burst inside.

OK, not a torrent.

Two.

"Regina," he greeted in distaste, noting that Henry was gone – little tyke must be at home. For Regina's sake, the baby had better had a sitter; Mr. Gold would enjoy calling CPS to no end.

"Gold," said Regina shortly. He ignored her in favor of telling Dr. Hopper that if his Dalmatian tried to shake the water off, he would personally boot them both out in the storm.

"Easy, Pongo," Archie whispered. With a shake of the head, Mr. Gold moved past both of them and locked the door. He pretended not to enjoy their wary looks.

"It appears we're roommates," he said smoothly, pocketing the shop key. "You two feel free to camp out in the main shop. I'll be in the office."

Which was a total lie, of course. He'd be upstairs, in the spacious, well-furnished apartment above the shop. On another day, he might have invited Archie, but now there didn't seem a way around that without Regina barging in as well.

He was inches from the curtain that led to his office when thunder cracked and an ear-shattering scream rang out from upstairs. Archie's face turned white. Regina looked at Mr. Gold in horror.

"You've locked us in with your _kidnap victims_?" she cried. Gold didn't even have time to roll his eyes before the little girl screamed again.

"DAAAAAADDY!"

He managed not to wince. Now it was Regina's turn to go pale.

"What are you _doing_ with your _captive_?" she demanded, looking sick. This time, Mr. Gold did get to roll his eyes. His sarcastic reply was interrupted by the sound of running on the stairs.

A very small child bowled into him and knocked him over.

"Daddy!" Alicia cried, clutching at his lapels. "It's thunderin'!"

"Astute observation, dear."

"Is that a child?" Regina exclaimed. "You kidnapped a _child_?"

"I'm her _foster father_," Gold snapped, lifting a trembling Alicia off him and accepting Archie's help getting up. Carefully, he pulled Alicia back into his arms, deliberately avoiding Archie and Regina's stares. "Now, Alicia," he murmured, using a gentle thumb to wipe away her tears, "it's just the weather. It's not going to hurt you – in fact, it's actually quite boring when you get used to it."

"She's a bit too _old_ to be afraid of thunder, isn't she?" Regina sniffed. Mr. Gold didn't turn around, but he heard a startled yelp and assumed that Archie may have "accidentally" whacked someone with his umbrella.

"Ready to go upstairs?" he asked Alicia softly. Her tears had stopped and the trembling had mostly subsided.

"Can I sleep with you?" she asked hopefully.

One could almost hear the slow turn of Archie and Regina's heads.

"_No_," said Gold slowly. "It's three o'clock in the afternoon. And I'm not going to sleep with you."

"Why not?"

"Because girls don't sleep with boys."

With an absolutely adorable pout of exasperation, Alicia tossed her head and said, "Well, can we cuddle?"

He could feel Regina and Archie staring at the back of his head.

"Oh, let's just go upstairs," he said.

* * *

Regina stood beside the couch, arms crossed and glaring. Mr. Gold sat on the sofa with Alicia in his lap and Archie lounging beside him. Pongo was curled up on the floor.

"This is highly inappropriate," said Regina waspishly and out of the blue.

"I agree," said Mr. Gold. "That dog has no place in my shop."

"It's not your shop, it's the upstairs apartment!" protested Archie at the same time Regina snapped,

"That's not what I'm talking about!"

They gave her their best bored expressions.

"_This_!" Regina growled, stabbing a finger at Gold and Alicia. "This … _cuddling_."

"Would you like to join?"

"_No_!" Regina took a moment to get her seething anger under control, apparently unaware of Archie and Gold's disinterested expressions. "You are her _foster father_, Gold! You can't _cuddle _with her."

Mr. Gold pulled Alicia closer in defiance. "If you're having troubles with Henry, I can always take your place," he offered. "I understand it's difficult to be close to someone you don't love."

If looks could kill (and in Fairy Tale Land, they sometimes could), Mr. Gold would have started rotting weeks ago. Archie took one quick glance at Regina's face and hid a snicker behind his hand.

"You look ridiculous with that girl on your lap," Regina huffed.

Mr. Gold just shrugged.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter easily has the least clever name. I think it's even worse than Butterfly Clips XD**

**Just so you guys know, I accept any and all prompts (unless I've done them before, in which case I still might find a way to do it again). So tell me what you want to see for this fic! I'll work it in!**


	15. Introducing Princess Grunnelda

Mr. Gold was sitting in his office, waiting for the impossibly long, impossibly boring day of NOT work to end. He hadn't had a single customer – not a single phone call, not a single angry storm-in from Regina. He was bored. As. Hell.

And then, at five p.m., in came a lonely little girl named Paige.

She danced around the shop for a little while, awkwardly asking him about different trinkets when she obviously had no means to buy them. Gold just watched, greeting her clumsy small talk with a sort of understanding silence.

Finally, looking between a luxurious boa that once belonged to Maleficent and a tiara that belonged to Rapunzel, Paige worked up her courage and got to the point.

"Mom and Dad never want to play," she explained, voice far away and wistful. "It's like … like they love me, but not the way they should. Not like parents."

Gold nodded, waiting for her to go on. After a little while of fiddling with the boa's hot pink feathers (Maleficent's taste in clothes had always made his lips curl), Paige continued.

"You were really fun when you babysat me and Henry," she said shyly. "Do you think we could … have a tea party?"

Her eyes flickered to the tea set high above her on a shelf, and Gold's eyes flickered to Belle's chipped teacup on a countertop across the room. He thought about his lack of customers today.

"I wouldn't be opposed to that," he said.

* * *

Gold wasn't sure how he got into situations like this. Between the tiara on his head (messing up his hair), the earrings (how had Paige known his ears were pierced, anyway?), and the hot pink feathers tickling his neck and nose, his only comfort was that no one was in his office to see him as he played Tea Time with Paige.

"Would you like some tea, Princess Grunnelda?" Paige asked archly. Gold cleared his throat, hacked a little, and eventually found the voice he'd used as Rumpelstiltskin.

"That would be lovely," he said in falsetto, holding out his cup – Belle's cup - as Paige pretended to prepare tea. Her technique was awful – he made a note to show her to _really_ make the beverage later on.

She poured imaginary liquid into his cup. Gold took a sip and closed his eyes.

"Ambrosia," he informed her. Paige giggled.

"Thank you, Princess."

"No problem." He leaned forward a little, batting the boa's tail over his shoulder and almost choking himself when it caught on the chair. Paige patted his hand comfortingly and encouraged him to go on. "So, dearie," he said, surveying the mess of china before him, "who's going to do the dishes?"

Paige snorted into her tea, making Gold grin. He was just about to tell her how un-ladylike that was when the bell in the main room of his shop rang out.

Gold froze, eyes wide. Paige craned her neck to stare at the curtain separating them from humiliation.

"Gold?" called out a familiar voice – Emma. "You in here?"

_Please stay there_, Gold thought, trying to undo the knot of feathers 'round his neck. _Don't come back here. Don't come back here. Don't_ –

The curtain was pushed aside.

"Gold, I –" Abruptly, Emma cut herself off and stared. Gold clamped down on a scowl, keeping his features perfectly blank.

"Emma," he said, rearranging his boa – if he couldn't get it off, the least he could do was rock it. "What a pleasant surprise."

The sheriff snorted. "What _is_ this?" she asked, shaking her head as a slow smile curved her lips. "Is this the way you babysit now? Or is this what Ashley's kid was for - playing tea with you?"

Gold felt his shoulders stiffen.

"Actually," he said coolly, "it's nigh impossible for a baby to make fake tea. I suppose you wouldn't know that, though, considering you've never raised a child."

He had no doubt in his head that she would have clocked him if Paige hadn't chosen that moment to pipe up.

"If you want to talk to Mr. Gold, you have to wait," she said politely enough. "This is our tea-time right now."

Emma frowned, hands on her hips. "What, you want me to join you?"

Paige's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

* * *

Emma wasn't sure how she found herself in an ill-fitted gold dress and Indian wrist bangles, but she did. She wasn't sure how she found Mr. Gold in a tiara, hot-pink boa, and earrings, but she did. She wasn't sure how they ended up having imaginary tea and talking about the latest crime – a spree of home invasions - but they did.

And it was friggin' weird.

"Honestly, I haven't a clue who would break in just to steal some couch stuffing," Mr. Gold told her, still using his creepy, high-pitched voice at Paige's request. "Maybe if you talk to Mr. Hamelin –"

"Mr. Hamelin?"

"Yes, the children's synchronized swimming coach – he used to run a pest-disposal business, and he's unusually knowledgeable on couch stuffing –"

"Guys," Paige complained, "your tea is getting cold."

Mr. Gold and Emma – aka Princess Grunnelda and Sir Gadagan, because apparently three princesses is silly and Mr. Gold wasn't man enough to be a Sir – dutifully took some sips. Paige nodded in approval, and when they were sure they could go on, they did.

Mr. Gold was never happier about the lack of cameras in his office.

* * *

**A/N: Mr. Hamelin is my version of the Pied Piper (hurr durr durr, stupid punny names). Marcie Gore, I can no longer even think of that guy without wanting to curl up in a ball and die XD**

**This one is based on a prompt from "Guest." Ah, Guest. So many reviews from you. I love your pen-name! Harhar.**

**Prompt: mr gold and make belive tea party with piag or Alicia or both.  
whereing a fulffy HOT PINKE boa and teara.  
Emma or Hatter walkes in and are forsted in to play (by the kids)  
gold must talk in his Rumpl voice.**

**(I would correct the spelling errors, but something about fulffy things and tearas seems right)**


	16. Stay With Us Unckie, Forever and Ever

At the end of another long day, Emma had still made no progress on finding Sarah and Kylie's parents. For now, the kids were hers to look after, and she shuddered at the idea of having two unruly toddlers in her house for any longer.

She explained the news to Mr. Gold when she found him sitting with the children, back in his suit from the night before.

"If you want, I can give you a ride to your house," she offered, noting Gold's unusually red nose and somewhat dazed eyes. "You're looking kind of under the weather."

"Diving into frozen rivers does that," Mr. Gold agreed. He nudged Sarah off his lap and stood, taking a moment to get the cane under his feet. Emma watched him say his crisp goodbyes to the girls – they stared at him in uncomprehending horror, not saying anything back. Then Mr. Gold strode over to the door.

Had she been faster, Emma could have warned him before Kylie and Sarah wrapped themselves around his legs and sent the most fearsome man in Storybrooke sprawling.

"Ouch," Mary Margaret said, wincing in sympathy. She emerged from the kitchen to help a grumbling Mr. Gold off the floor.

"PLEEEAAAASE!" Sarah wailed as Kylie started to bawl. "Please don't leave!"

"WAAAAH!"

"We want our Unckie Gooooold!"

Emma grimaced and snuck a look at Gold, expecting a somewhat thunderous, displeased expression to be on his face. Instead, he looked dismayed.

"Shush, girls," he murmured, pulling them into a hug. "Aw, it's okay – shh. I'm right here."

Mary Margaret and Emma made brief, incredulous eye contact. Soon, the little girls' tears turned to sniffles, and Mr. Gold glanced up at the sheriff.

"Maybe I should take the girls," he said worriedly.

"Oh, _hell_ no." Emma shook her head adamantly. "No. You are not stealing two little girls away to your dungeon on the edge of town."

"You don't even know where I live –"

"Yeah, but you didn't deny the presence of a _dungeon_, now, did you?"

Gold glared at her. The girls were looking fearful again, hugging him a little tighter. Suddenly, Sarah broke away and scampered over to Mary Margaret, tugging at the teacher's shirt.

"Mary Margaret?" she said. "Can Unckie Gold stay here? Pleeeeaase?"

Mary Margaret blanched. Emma felt like someone had punched her in the gut.

Mr. Gold sneezed.

"Oh," said Mary Margaret helplessly, "I – I suppose. Until we find your parents."

The girls erupted into ear-shattering cheers.

* * *

Emma sat across the couch from Gold and Sarah, watching as the pawnbroker teased the girl and told her stories. It was just beyond comprehension – Gold scared _her _sometimes. Why the hell did the kids love him so much?

Mystified, she shook her head and settled back. Mary Margaret was cooking dinner; Sarah was trying to make Gold incorporate funny voices into his story. Obligingly, Mr. Gold put on a falsetto for the part of Prince James.

"But I love Snow White," he complained in the high-pitched voice. Sarah giggled, hanging on to every word. "I've only met her once and she beat me up, but I am sooo in love."

Emma could feel the power of Mary Margaret's displeasure from the other room – the schoolteacher was always oddly touchy when people made fun of Prince Charming.

"Gold," said Emma diplomatically, "can you maybe do something else? Other than stories?"

He shrugged. Sarah pouted, ready to argue, when Mr. Gold shifted her on his lap and pulled her against him, his fingers digging into her stomach. Sarah let out a shout of laughter and squirmed, giggling helplessly.

Emma stared in disbelief.

"Stop!" Sarah cried, trying to wiggle away. Mr. Gold only grinned. "Stop! I gotta pee!"

Finally, Mr. Gold released her. She slid off his lap and onto the floor, panting. Then she looked up at him with a mischievous smile on her face.

Emma raised an eyebrow, predicting the girl's next move. Mr. Gold did as well, and he looked equally unimpressed.

Sarah lunged at the pawnbroker and started tickling him back.

It was amusing for the first few seconds; Sarah tickling futilely while Mr. Gold just sat there, totally impassive. Emma almost called out for Sarah to stop, just out of pity for the kid – but then Mr. Gold's face twitched. Sarah kept tickling, and it went back to stone – until a moment later, when he actually jerked away.

"You're ticklish!" Emma exclaimed. Gold only scoffed at her, but he dodged Sarah's fingers a bit more frantically when she jumped at him again.

He lasted three seconds before giving into full-blown laughter and gasping pleas for help. Emma watched for a moment, a smirk playing 'round her lips. She wished she had a camera for times like this.

"Emma!" Gold barked out, trying and failing to get Sarah off him. "Emma – hahaha – my favor –"

"What's that?" Emma cocked her head. "I can't make out what you're saying, Gold."

"My – hahahaha –"

"What?"

Gold let out a high-pitched, wild giggle that was best described as maniacal. Emma watched for a few more minutes, then stood, not missing the hopeful look in Gold's eyes as she approached.

She stepped over him and headed to the kitchen to help Mary Margaret.

* * *

There was a startled shout and a flash of charcoal-black past the doorway.

* * *

When dinner started, Mr. Gold was once again wearing his pajama pants. With a silent glare, he dared anyone to say a word.

"Unckie wet his pants," Sarah whispered. He turned the full force of his wrath on her.

"Room. Now."

"But -"

"ROOM."

Emma tried and failed to stifle her giggles.


	17. Courage, Part 1

**A/N: I KNOW, GUYS. I KNOW. IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG.**

**This is totally unfair, but despite the many, many wonderful prompts I've gotten from you beautiful people ... I'm skipping them XD For now, I mean. This was prompted by one lovely reader named Jack Brocket, and for some random reason, it's the one that brought my muse back to life. So, yeah, I'm not saying everybody else's prompts sucked or anything, it's just that I couldn't get myself to write them. And I don't know why.**

**(I will write them, though. Preferrably soon, because I think they'll all be super fun.)**

**So this batch of fills will probably take up to three chapter. All parts of it would be in this chapter, but it decided to end itself before I could finish it. If ... if that makes sense.**

**Gonna stop talking now. Read, friends, read.**

* * *

The diner was quiet and a little drafty thanks to that special winter breeze only found in Maine. Ruby was secluded somewhere in the kitchen – hiding – and after a few minutes of awkwardly standing watch, Granny had abandoned the counter and joined her.

In the corner, sipping coffee and forcing back the remnants of a shiver, sat Mr. Gold. It was November sixteenth – the first November sixteenth, in fact, that Storybrooke had ever experienced. One month previous, Emma Swan had showed up at the bed-and-breakfast. One month previous, time had started moving again.

And when Mr. Gold heard Emma's name one month ago, Rumpelstiltskin got his memories back.

The bell over the front door tinkled; a freezing gust of air assailed the diner and out of the darkness came a small shape, chuffing and stomping the snow off his boots. Henry Mills.

The boy trotted forward, eyes fixed on the counter, but halfway across the floor, he faltered. Mr. Gold watched silently, noting the slight crease between Henry's eyebrows. Then the little boy was looking his way.

He watched Henry gather up all of his courage and address the fearsome antiques dealer.

"Mr. Gold? Where's Ruby?"

For a long, quiet moment, Mr. Gold just looked at him. He took another sip of coffee, and his eyes flickered to the empty space on the table before him. He'd almost ordered a slice of cake earlier, when he paid for the coffee. Somehow, he hadn't been able to.

"And Granny," Henry added, glancing around in confusion. "Everybody's gone."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Ruby's in the back," said Mr. Gold smoothly, setting his mug down. "Her grandmother has joined her, I suppose. Just sit down, lad. I'm sure one or the other will be out soon."

Henry nodded and bit his lip, giving the room one last cursory glance, as if to check and make sure no one had been turned to puppets. Then, much to Gold's consternation, he sat right across from the pawnbroker.

"How are you today, Mr. Gold?" asked Henry politely with a wide, wide grin. Mr. Gold lowered his chin; disbelief and instinctual scorn canceled each other out to leave his face mostly blank. For one very brief moment, a shard of dull pain pierced his heart. Then it was squashed, mercilessly put aside.

"I'm fine," Gold said shortly. His eyes flickered toward the window; everything was dark outside. "Isn't it a little late for young men like yourself to be roaming the street?"

"It's only six," Henry shrugged.

Damn this winter weather, playing tricks on him. He'd rather lost track of time in the diner – how long had he been here, anyway?

"Right," said Gold. He turned back to his coffee, swirling the last remains of it – his third cup – around the bottom of the mug. Henry was staring at him shrewdly, the barest hint of a smile dimpling one cheek.

"You look distracted."

Mr. Gold bit back a childish response and settled for an absent nod. Henry's head cocked; he leaned forward by just an inch, so subtly he probably didn't even notice.

"If you're not gonna leave," the boy said lowly, conspiratorially, "maybe you could buy me dinner?"

Gold snorted. It was only after a short pregnant pause that he realized Henry was serious and – even more surprising – Gold was willing to do it.

"What do you want?" he asked, not missing the flash of surprise on Henry's face. The boy sat back a little, deep in thought.

"Um … cookies," he decided. "Peanut butter with chocolate chips, please. And chocolate cake. And a hot cocoa with cinnamon on top. Um, and a hot dog."

Slowly, Mr. Gold raised an eyebrow. Henry just grinned.

"I can go tell Ruby for you," he offered. With a mental sigh, Gold waved his hand in dismissal and Henry trotted off, positively beaming. The boy was back in less than a minute. He slid into the booth like a base runner coming home.

"It's going to be a while before you get your 'dinner,'" Gold told him wryly. "They'll be making the baked goods fresh."

"I know. I've ordered it before."

Mr. Gold nodded. He suddenly understood why Regina sometimes muttered under her breath about Henry wasting his allowance, but the thought wasn't quite humorous enough to put a smile on his face. Not today.

"Mr. Gold, are you smart?" Henry asked suddenly. Mr. Gold looked up at him, startled and not at all sure what to say. He hadn't been asked that since he was first human, and then his typical response had been an embarrassed, stammering circumvention. It as born of two things - first, his quiet confidence that he was smart, smarter than anyone in the village - and second, his deep-rooted horror at the idea that, when asked something, he might get it horribly wrong. The insecurity had always kept him stuttering until whoever asked the question moved on to question someone else.

Gold's response now was not much different.

"Uh … I – well, I suppose –"

"Hi, Henry!" interrupted Ruby's chirping, cheery voice. Mr. Gold ducked his head, certain he was blushing just a little at Henry's question. The waitress ignored him, though, simply setting Henry's drink and hot dog down before the boy. "We'll have the rest out soon, OK?"

"OK," Henry smiled. He watched as Ruby sauntered off, then turned his gaze back to Mr. Gold. "I need help with my homework," he explained, catching the brief moment when relief lit up the pawnbroker's face. "It's Social Studies, and I'm not good at Social Studies."

Social Studies? It took Mr. Gold a few moments of shifting through memories – Mr. Gold's memories, not Rumpelstiltskin's – to realize that, basically, Henry meant History. Excellent. The curse had provided him with plenty of knowledge on History.

He nodded once, and Henry started rooting through the backpack at his side. He thumped a heavy book down on the table – it was a school textbook, stuffed with loose papers and falling apart. Apparently, Henry really didn't care much for History.

"Well," said Mr. Gold, slowly sliding the book toward him and hoping no one from the diner was watching, "what, ah – what chapter are you on?"

"Three," Henry answered. He turned the pages rapidly for Mr. Gold, sometimes tearing them. "Here. And this is my worksheet."

Mr. Gold glanced up at the paper, which appeared to be stained and crumpled. At least the boy had made an effort to iron it out, if the burn marks were any indication. He took it gingerly, scanning the many questions and blank spaces for answers.

"It's about deserters," Henry explained. "From the Confederate army."

Mr. Gold's heart sank like a stone.

* * *

**Prompt: As for prompts. There are a few chapters in here that were very sweetly sad, and I was wondering if you could do one about one of the children asking Gold about courage?**

**Came from, as mentioned earlier, Jack ... shoot, forgot the last name. And I am too lazy to scroll up. Brocket? Oh, you know who you are!**

**Everyone, feel free to prompt. Even little things like ... like a word. Even that'll be fine :)**

**(I promise not to laugh at you)**

**(In fact, you should laugh at me for how I fill my prompts)**

**(And, shutting up now)**


	18. Courage, Part 2

**A/N: The war Henry and Gold are talking about is the American Civil War, where the more industrial, more populated North fought the very rural South. Part two of three.**

* * *

Their examination of the book – slowly filling in answers – had Gold's heart thudding the whole time.

"What do you think about this one?" asked Henry, pointing to question number eleven. "'What did many Confederate soldiers call the absence of two or three days which many took to visit family and friends?'"

"I think it's incredibly wordy," Gold answered. Henry gave him an almost scolding look.

"You know what I mean."

Gold shrugged minutely, returning his eyes to the book. He didn't need to find the answer; he just needed to look away from Henry's bold stare.

"French leave," he told the boy.

"Oh, thanks!" Henry scribbled it down eagerly, then read the next blank question and bit his lip. "'What was the common punishment for deserters in the Confederate Army?'"

"Hobbling," Gold answered immediately. Henry looked confused, so he was quick to explain. "It means the commanding officers would crush the knee of whoever deserted."

"I thought it was death …"

Mr. Gold shook his head. "No. Hobbling was worse; that's why they used it. Hobbling left the man unable to do decent work, such as on a farm. Weren't most Southerners farmers?"

"Well, yeah –"

"And if they were conscripted again, having been hobbled, they were the exceptions to the 'no cripples' rule. Hobbled men would be put back on the battlefield to finally die in battle. They were easy targets, and they couldn't run."

Henry was just staring at him now, eyebrows furrowed. Mr. Gold swallowed the rest of his rant, feeling cold.

"I'm pretty sure it's death," said Henry gently, eyes searching and worried. "It says so right here. But it doesn't say anything about hobbling."

Swallowing hard, Mr. Gold gave a tight, short nod and scanned the paper. Most of the questions were answered now; he was just looking at it while he tried to get himself under control.

"Here's your cookies," said Ruby's cheerful voice. Once again, Mr. Gold did not look up at her. But he felt her gaze on him, so he forced himself to speak, voice low so that it wouldn't tremble.

"The answer to number fourteen in 1862," he said. Henry nodded, more preoccupied now with the baked goods.

"Thanks. Could you write it down for me?"

Mr. Gold didn't answer. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Ruby walked away. Mr. Gold continued to look down, gradually gaining composure and actually reading the questions in earnest, trying to find answers. He could hear Henry chewing the peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies across the booth.

"Were you ever in a war, Mr. Gold?" the boy asked.

Mr. Gold was silent.

"You know a lot about them. Is that how you hurt your leg?"

For just a moment, Gold was still, scrutinizing the history book. He turned to Henry's worksheet, quickly scrawling the last few answers in his best imitation of a ten-year-old's chicken scratch. He closed the text book around the crumpled piece of paper and sat back.

"Done," he said lightly. "Don't tell your mother."

"I won't."

Henry didn't bring up the war again – not yet – but his eyes were too thoughtful for Gold to think he had forgotten it. Gold shrugged it off anyway; he reached for his coffee, dismayed to find that it was almost empty – and what was in there was definitely lukewarm.

"Why are you at the diner?" Henry asked out of the blue. Mr. Gold looked up at him, waiting. "You never come here except to get money," the boy explained. "And you never stay to eat. So why are you here today?"

A surge of half-formed thoughts (and a fully formed, aching sorrow) charged to the front lines of Mr. Gold's brain, each one fighting for dominance. He clenched his jaw and forced them all a couple steps away.

"It's cold out," he said, keeping his voice deliberately calm and casual. "I thought I'd step in for … something to warm me up."

He tilted the coffee mug so Henry could see. The boy barely even looked at it. He was thinking, thinking hard, and Gold had a terrible feeling of dread in his stomach because he knew that if anyone could guess the truth, it would be this intuitive little boy. The boy who had never fallen for the Queen's curse, the boy who saw through everything.

"Here we go!" called Ruby from across the room, her heels clicking on the floor. "Two slices of chocolate cake!"

She set the plates down on the table and Henry lifted one so that it was sitting on the textbook, right under Mr. Gold's nose. Gold waiting until Ruby was gone and slid it back, feeling ill.

"I don't want it," he said, not unkindly. Henry pushed it toward him again, stubbornness settling on his face.

"You're paying for it. You should get some cake."

"I don't _want_ it."

The plate clacked across the table, shifting quickly from one person to the other. Henry was glaring now, and Gold had a feeling he was doing the same. Finally, he grabbed the plate and swung his arm around, leaving the lonely slice on the table behind him, where Henry could neither reach it nor force it on him.

He met the boy's eyes with a steely look. Henry returned it.

Slowly, Gold realized how silly he was being and returned the plate to their table. He took the fork Henry offered him and started picking at the frosted, crumbly little slice.

"You know," said Henry, "I don't think deserters deserved to die. Or be hobbled."

Gold looked up at him.

"There's a whole section about what the war was like when they weren't fighting," Henry said around a mouthful of cake. "They didn't have food or clothes, except what they were wearing. And they didn't get to sleep at all. And when they were in battle, they were up against the _North_. They didn't stand a chance! Plus, most of them didn't want to be there to begin with. They had families. And they weren't fighters."

Mr. Gold's eyes were shining. He curled his fingers into loose fists, staring down at the table, trying to form words.

"Whether they wanted to be there or not," he said eventually, "they still ran while others died."

Henry shrugged. "So they didn't fight who they are. I don't know about you, but if _I_ was in a war I didn't care about, and I didn't want to fight – well, wouldn't it be braver to run? And face all the bullying because you did what you thought was right? You'd get to be with your family."

Mr. Gold didn't respond. Slowly, Henry leaned forward over the table, edging the untouched slice of cake away.

"I think it's braver," he announced softly. "I think those men who died were cowards, because they'd rather die and leave their kids alone than face the bullying and be a parent."

"You think it's all subjective," Mr. Gold murmured. Henry sat back a little.

"I dunno what that means," he said. Gold inhaled quietly, vaguely aware that his arms were crossed over his stomach – he was hugging himself to keep from curling in.

"You think it all depends on circumstance. That a man can be a coward to some and a … a hero to others. Like …"

"Like his kids," Henry finished, nodding. "Exactly. I mean, if my dad let himself be hobbled so he could be my parent …"

He trailed off. He wasn't smiling, not quite, but there was a softness to his features that suggested he wanted to. Mr. Gold breathed deeply, taking it all in.

"Thanks for the food, Mr. Gold," said Henry, grabbing his backpack and getting to his feet. "And for helping me with my homework."

"Don't mention it."

The boy was gone before Gold could find the strength to look him in the eye.


	19. Courage, Part 3

It was eight o'clock and it was November sixteenth, and soon Granny's diner would reach its closing time for a Sunday. But despite the irritated glances and the quiet whispers from the kitchen, Mr. Gold was still just sitting there.

This time, instead of coffee, he was staring down at the slice of chocolate cake.

He'd almost ordered a slice himself, before Henry came in. He'd opened his mouth and started to add it to his order – "A refill, Ruby, and" – but he hadn't been able to get it out.

It was one month since Emma brought his memories back.

It was one month since Gold remembered everything.

It was the first time, in this world, that he had ever celebrated his son's birthday.

At eight-fifteen, Mr. Gold stared down at the slice of cake and his mouth twisted. He threw a wad of money on the table cloth and stood, rattling the coffee mug and all of Henry's empty plates.

He exited the diner, out into the cold November air.


	20. Identity Theft

**A/N: Prompted from wintersmith, who always leaves hilarious reviews. Actually, I'm pretty sure wintersmith was the first person to review this story. And I often see reviews she leaves for other people that crack me up - but that sounds stalker-ish, so forget I said it.**

**This chapter goes back to the foster children Mr. Gold had before the curse was broken. Enjoy.**

* * *

At two years old, Edgar and Mike were two of the youngest children Mr. Gold had ever fostered. The prize ultimately went to the irregular cycle of babies, of course, but that didn't stop the twins from taking first place in another category – Most Mischievous.

And Most Irritating.

And Most Destructive.

And OK, they were heavy contenders in Most Adorable, as well. Cute little tykes. But they were identical twins, and while neither had quite mastered the art of conversation, their art of deception was going full-force.

Mr. Gold walked down the stairs that morning on his way to cook breakfast. Instead, his foot and cane caught on a tripwire and he plummeted down the steps, managing to catch himself just before he broke his neck against the floor.

He straightened, took a deep breath, and bellowed, "MICHAEL!"

There was no doubt in his mind which twin it was – Michael had had dessert taken away yesterday for saying some very rude words, and the little boy had clearly had vengeance on the mind. But to think that a foster child of his would go so far as attempting murder –

Gold was equal parts horrified and proud.

There was a pattering of footsteps, and both twins jogged down the stairs. They stopped at the bottom, staring at the remains of their tripwire, which was still loosely wrapped around Gold's good leg.

"Michael," said Gold coolly, "would you like to tell me why I nearly broke my neck on the stairs?"

The twins looked at each other.

"You kluzzy?" said Edgar.

"Wrong. Try again."

"You dancin'," said Mike with a sage nod. "An' you forgotted 'bout your leg."

"Hardly." Mr. Gold used his cane to push the wire away from his calf. He dangled it in front of the children. "Would one of you like to tell me who planted this on the stairs?"

"Mikey," said both twins at once. Gold glared at them; he knew how this game went.

"And would Michael like to step forward and receive his punishment?"

The twins looked at each other.

"Dat one's Mikey," said Michael, pointing at Edgar. Gold gave the more dominant twin an exasperated look.

"Is that so."

"Uh-huh."

"Great." Gold knelt in front of Edgar as best he could, taking note of the fear in the boy's eyes. He was probably envisioning how many desserts he'd miss out on while being Mikey. "_Michael_, as a reward for coming forward and admitting to what you did, I would like to get you that action figure you wanted at the store."

The real Michael spluttered in indignation; Edgar's eyes were wide as saucers.

"Had you kept quiet," Gold went on, "or forced your dear brother Edgar to take the blame, you would have received no desserts for a week."

The real Michael stopped spluttering and pouted instead.

"I breaked da toilet, too," said Edgar. Mr. Gold patted him on the head.

"I'm sure you did."

"And – and I da one who brought da doggie home."

"That's just swell, Michael. Just swell."

Gold stood, leading the boys into the kitchen. Michael was scowling and shooting his brother angry glares. Edgar was beaming, with his chest puffed out.

"I pushed Eddie down the stairs," said Mike suddenly. Gold just turned to face him, eyebrows raised. There was a long pause.

"Was that nice?" he asked eventually. Mike's expression faltered.

"No …. It was funny, though."

"Don't do it again – but thanks for coming clean, Michael, that was very sweet."

He had never seen a toddler eat Mickey Mouse pancakes with so much hatred before.

* * *

**Prompt: What about Gold having to take care of identical twin boys whom no one can tell apart? Think Dennis the Menace times two. **

**Everyone else, feel free to prompt away. I feed off these things. They're like my liquor.**


	21. Love & Monsters

The Victorian was silent and perfectly dark at ten p.m. Some would say it was an early bedtime for the pawnbroker, who seemed the sort to do illicit business all night long, but Mr. Gold would be happy to shoot those people down. He had plenty of snappy arguments lined up should some stalker-ish person mention it – things like, "Have you ever tried to wake a child up in the morning when they went to sleep after ten?" or "After caring for that girl, I'm worn out by frigging eight."

OK, so maybe the arguments weren't so snappy. The point was that Alicia was finally, finally in bed – finally, finally off her sugar high – finally, finally asleep. And Mr. Gold could sink into his bed, could lose himself in the satin sheets and the soft comforter, could let his head rest on the feather-light pillow and close his tired eyes and –

"DAD-DY!"

Groaning loudly, Gold yanked himself away from the beautiful, enticing, sexy bed and trudged off down the hall. He pushed open Alicia's bedroom door and did his best to glare inside.

"What?" he said, using his best foreboding voice.

"I'm thirsty," Alicia complained. Gold stared at her for a while. Alicia stared back.

Gold turned on his heel and started to close the door.

"WAIT!" Alicia shouted. Gold leaned his forehead against the wall and resisted the urge to die.

"What, Alicia?" he barked.

"I wanna glass of pop."

"No."

"Why not?" she cried. Gold gritted his teeth and imagined pillows.

"Because you're six years old, and six-year-olds don't get sugary drinks. Also, because 'pop' is an uneducated slang word. You're supposed to call it 'carbonated beverages.'"

Alicia opened her mouth to protest, but didn't get the words out. Gold overrode her.

"ALSO," he stressed, then paused, trying to remember what the third thing had been. Poisoned _apples_, he was tired. "We don't have any carbonated beverages," he finished finally. Alicia's lower lip slipped into a pout.

"Then juice," she said stubbornly.

"No."

"Why not?!"

"Juice has sugar in it," Gold replied, just as stubborn. "Now go to sleep. Daddy's tired and will probably die if he doesn't find a bed soon."

"A glass of juice," Alicia bartered, "and you can have my teddy bear."

Gold almost laughed – and with him as tired as he was, it would have been the wild, unhinged cackle of Fairy Tale Land – but then he saw the teddy bear. It looked so soft, so plush.

Like a pillow.

Gold liked pillows.

"Stay here," Gold told the girl. She nodded, beaming, and Gold made his way downstairs to the kitchen. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and a juice carton that remained unidentified because he hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. Finally, he made his way back up and shoved the juice into Alicia's hands. He grabbed the teddy bear and turned to leave.

"Daddy?" Alicia called. Mr. Gold sighed. "Tell me a story."

"Once upon a time," said Gold tersely. He paused. "The end."

"No!"

"Yes."

"It has to have a middle," Alicia lectured him. "What's the middle?"

Gold looked down at the teddy bear, trying to imagine a story a child would like. It was so late. His imagination was absolutely shot.

"Once," he tried again, "there was a bear named Cleft-foot."

Alicia leaned forward eagerly.

"Cleft-foot was born in the fires of hell," Gold said flatly. "He wasn't born, actually, so much as he congealed from the blood and feces of other demons."

"What's feces?"

"Doodie."

"Oh."

"Cleft-foot," Gold went on, eyelids drooping and brain churning at a sluggish pace to provide the story, "had a taste for the meat of babies. So he grabbed a little girl named Ali – um, Alice, and peeled off all her skin quite painfully and roasted her."

There was a long pause.

"Well, goodnight," said Gold. This time, he actually made it out the door before Alicia called him back.

"Wait!" she wailed. "I need a night-light!"

Gold snagged a desk lamp from the hallway, plugged it in, and aimed its fluorescent bulb at Alicia's bed. He turned again.

"WAIT!" Alicia shrieked. "You didn't check my bed for monsters!"

Gold sighed, did a cursory half-bow that made it painfully obvious he couldn't see beneath the bed, and said,

"Just Cleft-foot."

"Oh," said Alicia. She considered that. "OK."

Gold turned, clutching the bear so hard his knuckles were white.

"WAIT!" Alicia screamed. This time, Gold whirled around, his face livid and his mouth twisted in a snarl as he growled,

"WHAT?"

Alicia stared at him. A vein jumped in Gold's forehead, and he slowly adjusted his stance so he wasn't quite so … predatory.

"Goodnight," Alicia told him. "Love you."

Gold sagged. He came to the side of the bed, kissed her on the forehead, and murmured, "I love you, too, dear."

She rested back against the pillows, eyes sliding shut and breathing evening out. Wearily, Gold trudged back to his room, finally falling into bed. He pulled the blankets over him out of nothing more than muscle memory, sleep coming fast.

The itching in his eyelids faded. The tension in his muscles eked away. For the first time in what felt like days, consciousness began to waver and dreams bled into his thoughts, dancing on the cusp of his brain and beckoning him forward into deep, deep sleep.

"Daddy?" said a voice beside him.

Gold jolted awake, one eye open, and stared at the little girl standing next to the bed. His gaze flickered over her, silently asking what was wrong.

"I can't sleep without my teddy bear," Alicia said.

With a deep sigh of resignation, Gold rolled over and made space for her, too tired to put her back to bed. Alicia curled up next to him with the teddy bear crushed between them.

" 'Night, Daddy," she murmured once again.

Gold hummed once, just in acknowledgement, and finally went to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: This one comes from Marcie Gore's prompt: Gold tries to put a stuborn Foster Chold or kid he's babysitimg bed But she or he Keeps Askimg for Water Another story ETc. **

**I enjoyed it :) **

**Question, guys. I have another chapter already written up. Technically, it's a Sarah and Kylie chapter (you know Sarah and Kylie), but they aren't in it much as my muse decided to make it a sick!Gold fic with lots of sleep-talking. So I need to know if you guys would actually like to see that here, or if I should scrap it.**

**It's just not very Kid Whisperer-y :)**


	22. Sweet Dreams

**A/N: This chapter goes to RockAndAHardPlace, who didn't exactly give me a prompt, but requested more Sarah and Kylie chapters quite a while ago ... and then again last night, when I was pondering whether to post the chapter written for him/her XD It just amused me, Rocky.**

**Everything Gold says is a quote from my father, who is a very loquacious sleeper.**

**A somlinguist, if you will.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

"Emma."

The sheriff turned in her sleep, grumbling into the pillow. A small hand reached up again, resting in her hair.

"Emma!"

Emma didn't respond. After a moment of silence, the little hand curled into a fist, enclosing strands of blonde hair inside it. The child tugged, hard.

"Aaagh!" Emma cried, sitting up, then hunching over to relieve the pain. Sarah let go of the woman's hair instantly, her eyes wide but unapologetic. "Sarah?" Emma asked. "What the he – heck are you doing here? Why did you pull my hair?"

"Unckie's dying," said Sarah solemnly.

For a long few minutes, Emma couldn't process that.

"Gold?" she said eventually, eyebrows furrowed. "He's … what?"

"He's dying," Sarah said again. There were tears in her eyes. "He got chicken pox."

Emma wasn't sure what part of that sentence made her want to laugh more – the fact that Sarah believed chicken pox was a deadly disease, or the fact that she thought Mr. Gold had it. Although, Emma supposed that if someone Mr. Gold's age did have it, death was always possible.

"OK," she sighed, swinging her feet off the edge of the bed. She was unwilling to get up, but in a sitting position, she wouldn't fall asleep. "Tell me why you think Mr. Gold is dying."

"He won't wake up."

That got Emma's attention. She stood, searching Sarah's face for any hint of a lie or exaggeration. Nothing.

She grabbed Sarah's hand and pulled her out of the room.

* * *

Mr. Gold was lying on the couch, and while Sarah was right about him not waking up, she was wrong about him being dead – or close to it. Emma approached the man's form, blurry in the darkness, and when she determined he was breathing, she took the time to turn on the lights.

Gold was flushed and sweat beaded at his hairline, but he was also shivering. Emma took the details into account – his red nose, the sneezing from earlier, the fact that he jumped in a frozen river and didn't change for at least an hour – and came to a quick conclusion.

Storybrooke's pawnbroker had a cold.

"Mr. Gold's fine," she assured Sarah, first and foremost. "He's just sick, OK? He isn't dying."

Sarah looked doubtful, but she nodded all the same. Emma budged in front of her, putting her hand on Gold's forehead. He was burning up enough to make Emma snatch her hand back and check it for burns, which … might have been a little paranoid.

"Go get Mary Margaret," she told Sarah. "You and your sister can sleep in her bed tonight, OK?"

"OK! Is Unckie going to live?"

"Yes. Go."

Sarah sauntered off, pulling Kylie – who was still mostly asleep – behind her. After a few minutes, Mary Margaret emerged from the bedroom, looking frazzled and worried sick.

"Emma?" she said, voice tremulous. "What do they mean, Mr. Gold's dead?"

Emma rolled her eyes and motioned for Mary Margaret to come closer. The schoolteacher stepped forward, leaned over to get a peek at Gold, and sighed.

"And you got me up at midnight for this … why?" she asked.

Emma smiled. Mary Margaret stared at her, uncomprehending. Then her eyes widened in realization.

"Oh, no," she said lowly, shaking her head. "No, Emma."

"Now, Mary Margaret –"

"No!"

"You _did_ volunteer at the hospital –"

"I am NOT nursing Gold back to health!" Mary Margaret cried, going beet red. Emma just smiled, watching her friend.

"Don't worry," she said. "It's not like – like the flu, or sunstroke or anything. He's not gonna get delirious. He'll just need medicine, and since the girls won't let him leave …"

She let the words trail into silence. Mary Margaret nodded, looking resigned and none-too-happy with the situation.

"Monkeys," Gold mumbled from the couch.

* * *

If there was one thing Mary Margaret learned over the next few days – if there was one thing drilled into her skull – it wasn't anything innocuous, like 'Gold sleeps a lot,' or 'Gold does not like NyQuil,' or 'Gold will only take NyQuil if the children try it and show him that it tastes all right,' or even 'Gold will threaten to call CPS about me giving children NyQuil if I listen to him and give the children frigging NyQuil.'

No. What she learned was this:

Gold talked in his sleep.

Of course, she knew that from the first night, when he'd said 'monkeys.' But it wasn't always simple like that. It was a constant barrage of words, and while some of them were stand-alones – 'staff' and 'wheel' and 'shop' – or women's names – 'Belle' and 'Joy' and once, embarrassingly, 'Emma' –a great many were fully-formed, if often incomprehensible, sentences.

The first time it happened, Mary Margaret was sitting by the couch, reading and listening to the radio with the volume turned down low. Gold didn't so much as shift before saying, loud and clear and conversationally,

"No. Teachers would get in trouble for that."

Bewildered, Mary Margaret looked down at her book's sultry cover – and, OK, so maybe she _would_ get in trouble for that – but only if she read it during class!

"I didn't know you were awake," she said nervously, hoping to take Gold's attention off the book. But Gold didn't respond. He stayed where he was, face-down and breathing evenly.

Belatedly, Mary Margaret realized he was talking in his sleep.

There were two more instances that night – "Are you going to put nitrogen in those tires?" and "But the gunman only has one tail."

Mary Margaret didn't want to think too long on that. She told Emma about it in the morning, after Gold had woken up to grumble about his sinuses and then swiftly taken a nap. Emma didn't seem too impressed.

"Bastard always has to have the last word," she muttered.

"What's bastard?" asked Sarah, who was sitting on Mr. Gold's chest. Incidentally, Mr. Gold was slowly turning blue. Mary Margaret plucked the girl up and moved her down to Gold's bad knee.

"Mr. Gold," Emma explained before Mary Margaret could say a word. "It's his nickname. Only his friends and family call him that."

"Can _I_ call him that?"

"Of course."

"Wake up, bastard!" Sarah cried cheerfully, swatting Mr. Gold on the cheek. He didn't even stir.

* * *

That night, Mary Margaret sat at the foot of the … couch. Did couches have feet? She wasn't sure. In fact, she wasn't too sure beds had feet, either, but that was beside the point.

Mr. Gold was sleeping on his back, his arms wrapped loosely around Sarah and Kylie, who hadn't taken the offer of a bed to themselves for very long. Mary Margaret was reading Jane Austen.

"If you drop a baby," Mr. Gold remarked, eyes still closed, "it's not like a hamburger patty..."

Mary Margaret stared at him.

"You don't get over it right away," he told her. He shut his mouth and kept sleeping, breathing even and deep.

"Thanks," said Mary Margaret. This late at night, surreal happenings just rolled on by. "I'll remember that."

Gold hummed appreciatively and murmured something like, "Be sure you do."

Mary Margaret nodded, bemused at would could almost be called a conversation. "I will."

"They're fragile," Gold said. Mary Margaret nodded again, this time holding back a giggle.

"OK."

She waited for a response, but there was none. Kylie was lying with her head near Gold's stomach, her feet near his neck and her butt right in his face. Just before Mary Margaret turned away, she heard a distinct farting noise from the toddler's direction.

Mary Margaret froze. Kylie stirred a little, yawned, and went back to sleep.

"Mm, Kylie," said Gold sleepily, ruffling what he probably thought was hair but was actually pajama bottoms. "Your breath smells _good_."

Mary Margaret let out a shrill, strangled noise as she stifled her laughter. Gold went still, his eyebrows furrowed as he slowly came awake.

His eyes snapped open and stared directly at Kylie's behind.

Mary Margaret couldn't hold in her laughter after that.


	23. Beginning, Middle, End

**A/N: MUCH EMBARRASSMENT ENSUES.**

**...**

**So ... you guys weren't meant to see that last chapter. My original author's note for THIS chapter, the REAL chapter 22, was all about how I was going to post the Sarah & Kylie bit later on, after I'd fixed the writing to a standard I deemed readable.**

**I'll just quietly edit it while no one's looking as I slowly make adjustment and die of red-face. Also known as blushing. And banging my head on the desk.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

"Daaaaddy," Alicia whined. Gold shushed her, clicking his tongue quietly as he looked over her outfit. Kneeling, he straightened the little girl's sweater and made sure the blouse underneath was tucked in.

"Daddy!" Alicia said again, indignant.

"Shush, dear," said Mr. Gold absently. "And don't call me that."

"But –"

"Are you ready?"

She puffed her cheeks out, glaring balefully at her foster father. Gold wasn't moved; his expression remained neutral and waiting.

"_Yes_," Alicia sighed finally. Gold stood again.

"Good." His fingers went to her hair, adjusting the little bow that had been clipped in that morning. He brushed her hair back from her neck and combed it as best he could, making absolutely sure that it was straight. Alicia gave a loud, dramatic sigh.

"_Daddy_," she said impatiently, "I wanna go to the park."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You _know_ why," said Gold lowly. His jaw was clenched and his words were barely audible. "Now be good. And stand still – don't mess up your outfit."

He waited for a nod. When Alicia finally gave it to him, he swept into the other room and returned swiftly with an antique camera. With a hand between her shoulder blades, he urged her toward the doorway, where light sprayed through the window panes and landed softly on the floor. When Alicia planted herself there, the sunshine broke across her shoulders and around her head like she was an angel being welcomed home.

Gold swallowed, his throat dry.

"OK, Alicia," he said with a forced evenness to his tone. "Smile, dear."

She only glared. A twinge of sharp pain shot through Gold's chest; he struggled only briefly to keep it off his face.

"Smile for Daddy," he prompted guiltily, and after just a minute more of sulking, Alicia obeyed. It was not a happy smile, not at all what he'd hoped to see, but it hinted of happy memories, at least. It was the kind of smile Gold had seen on family members wishing a dying loved one goodbye. It was pained.

"Daddy," said Alicia while Gold busied himself with the camera. Her voice was trembling; when he looked up, her chin was, too, and her eyes were filmy with tears. Gold set the camera aside and came to her, not registering her words until he had already pulled her into a quick hug.

"Daddy, I don't want to go.

"I don't want to go with them.

"Daddy –"

Her words broke, dissolved into sobbing mumbles that no one could understand. She clutched at his shirt as hard as she could, and Gold found it hard not to return the gesture. She cried for nearly five minutes, and then he grabbed her gently by the shoulders and made her look into his eyes.

"You're getting a family, Alicia," he told her firmly as tears dripped from her wide, sorrowful eyes down to her nose. His jaw was clenched so hard he thought it might shatter, but it kept his voice steady and his eyes dry. "You're going to have a mother - and a father - and they're going to come pick you up and –"

And she was still crying, tears rolling down her cheeks and chest heaving. Gold's words got faster and more panicked as his voice started to betray him, started to get reedy, started to crumble.

"—and you've known about this for _weeks_!" he said desperately, pleadingly. He swallowed, getting himself under control, and Alicia cried harder. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to make this better. "You met with the – with the nice lady, from the adoption agency – remember?"

Alicia shook her head – not because she didn't remember, but because she didn't want the words to be true – and she buried her face in his shirtfront again, clutching tightly to his sides. Her sobs were quiet and breathless. Gold held her close, his own eyes damp, and let out a long, shuddering sigh. He lowered his chin 'till his lips were brushing the hair at the crown of Alicia's head.

"I packed everything you wanted me to," he said quietly, letting his eyes slide shut. Alicia just hugged him; she didn't respond. "I packed your bear, and your new clothes and other toys. I packed the book you like."

"Picture?" Alicia asked, pulling back a little. Gold looked at her, not comprehending. "Did you pack a picture?" she clarified, voice fragile and hopeful. "Of me and you?"

For a long minute, Gold just stared at her. He hadn't thought of that, and there were so many different feelings inspired by the question that his mind seemed to settle on feeling numb. The girl actually wanted a picture of him – something to remember him by. If he was lucky, she'd forget his name by the end of the month – and if he was a bit less selfish, he might hope for that inevitable loss of memory to come for her by the end of the week.

"I don't have any pictures of myself," Gold told her as gently as he could. Alicia's face fell, and his heart fell with it.

He knew she wouldn't remember him well. Certainly, by the time she was an adult, she'd hardly even remember a life outside that with her new parents. But she _wanted_ to remember him, and that – fruitless though the gesture may be, that –

A car pulled into the drive. Gold's handkerchief disappeared from his pocket and went instead to Alicia's face, wiping away the evidence of her tears. He gave her an encouraging smile that felt sick to him and turned her around, facing the door. For a moment, Alicia stood where he had placed her, stiff and frozen from fear.

Then, even as car doors slammed and the chattery voices of a man and his wife could be heard from outside, Alicia grabbed the camera off the table and shoved it into Gold's hands. He fumbled with it, and in an instant her child-like urgency was instilled in him.

"I'll send it to you," he vowed in a whisper, tugging her nearer for a quick – and no doubt clumsy – shot. The camera flashed in their eyes and Alicia recovered first. By the time Gold blinked the sunspots away, the little girl was already gazing anxiously at the door. The kiss she'd laid on his cheek before she left was still tingling.

Gold put the camera up and for the next few minutes, he was numb. He looked at but didn't see the faces of the man and woman who took her. He heard but never processed their names – they were from out of Storybrooke, as he'd stipulated, and so long as they never hurt her that was all that mattered. Gold didn't notice a thing about the scene at all, nothing until the end.

Nothing until Alicia gave him one last teary goodbye and the front door closed behind her, and Gold was all alone in his great big empty house.

* * *

**Prompt: Ok, so we've seen some really cute stories about what happens while he's**  
**fostering the kids, but what about when someone else comes to adopt one of the**  
**kids and what happens after they take the kid and he's left all alone in that**  
**big old house again. - TARRANT HiTOPP**

**Tell me what you guys think**


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